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Issued Weekly. Annual Subscription, $15.00. . May 23, 




THE 


-HTML PHRYNE 


BY 


F. C. PHILIPS. 

' AND 

C. J. MILLS. 


fykqk 3?. I(0Yell & Co., 

142 & 144 WORTH STREET, 

NEW YORK. 


ZW THE BEST DICTIONARY OF 
THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE: 

Stormonth’S iES, 

OVER 1200 PAGES. 

Dictionar y.,^ 

A Dictionary of the English Language \ Pi'onounc- 
Ing, Etymological and Explanatory , embracing 
Scientific and other Terms , numerous Familiar 
Terms , and a copious selection of Old English 
Words , by the 

Rev. James Stormonth, 

Author of “Etymological and Pronouncing 
Dictionary of the English Language for 
Schools and Colleges,” Etc. 

Ihil vttottuucumou cmy\ju.r Bt\i\sto bx thb 

Ret. I\ H. Phelp, M.A., Ccmtab. 


One Vol. # 12mo, clotH, gilt, - - 81.75 

do. do. Ha If leather, - 2.00 

do. do. fjuH; slieep, - - 2.50 

do. do. Half rwssia, - 3.00 

' 3SVw Yq r WT 

FRANK F. LOVELL & 00..!42-f44 Worth St 








NOVELS BY F. C. PHILIPS. 


AS IN A LOOKING-GLASS. 

“Clear beyond any common standard of c everness .”— Daily Telegraph. 

“ Remarkably clever, full of sustained interest.”— World. 

44 There are ingenuity and originality in the conception of the book, and power 
in its working out.”— Scotsman. 

“ A powerful tragedy, a portfolio of character sketches, and a diorama of society 
scenes. Its characters are all real and living personages.”— Globe. 

“ It will be praisd here, censured there, and read everywhere, for it is uncon- 
ventional and original, and in every sense a most attractive and remarkable 
novel.”— Life. 

44 That Mr Philips’ story has hit the public taste is sufficiently evident from the 
fact that it has reached a second edition before we have found time to notice it. 
Its success is not astonishing, for it shows abundant cleverness, much knowledge 
of some curious phases of life, and a real insight into certain portions of that 
mysterious organ, the female heart.”— St. James's Gazette. 

* 4 Mrs. Despard is her own heroine in the^e pages, and confides to her diary the 
do’ngs and sayings of her daily life, and, with singular unreserve, the motives which 
Influence and shape her actions. ... He paints this woman as she is The 
story is so shrewd and graphic, and Mrs. Despard is so cleverly wicked, that it 
would be a comedy were it not always working up to a poesible tragedy.”— Lit- 
erary World. 

44 The pictures of life at Monte Carlo are very clever, and indeed the book is 
throughout exceedingly graphic; the book has a certain value as revealing the real 
condition, the opinions, and the life of a considerable section of the wealthy 
pleasure-loving world of the day .” — Pictorial World. 


THE DEAN AND HIS DAUGHTER. 

44 The cruelty with which the world treats a divorced woman was, perhaps, 
never illustrated so powerfully or with such sarcasm as in this straightforward 
narrative, told by the victim herself without a complaint or a single cry of indig- 
nation.”— The Times. 

44 It displays much knowledge of the world, is brimful of brightness, and has, 
moreover, an agreeable individuality of tone and manner.”— The Globe. 

44 It is interesting throughout. The style is crisp and vigorous. The characters 
are well drawn.”— Scotsman. 

44 This is unquestionably the best novel the author of 4 As in a Looking-Glass ’ 
has produced. 4 The Dean and Hie Daughter ’ deserves to become a classic. It 
will certainly be read by every one, and if society does not like it, it will be because 
It is lashed so unmercifully. Liking apart, all must admire it, for its English is 
faultless, and its construction a pattern of what a novel should be.”— St. Stephen’s 
Review. 

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF LUCY 

SMITH. 

44 It is wildly improbable, outrageous in places, yet very well told throughout. 
Many will enjoy reading it who condemn its sensationalism .”— Daily Telegraph. 


•* Originality of design, artistic neatness of construction, and perfect style, with 
shrewd insight into the humours of individual character, go far to recommend a 
story .”— Illustrated London Newt. 

“Mr. Philips has gone out of his way to give us something that is not common, 
and his efforts no doubt will meet with due appreciation.”— Court Journal. 

“ He is fond of tracing the rose strewn career of some young person of either 
sex who devotes himself or herself to self-enjoyment, unfettered by social restraints 
and owing no duty to any one but ‘first person singular.’ "—Times. 

“The idea which is rather a repulsive one is worked out with considerable 
power. . , . Mr. Philips, to our mind, is at his best in the present work.”— 
Literary World. 


A LUCKY YOUNG WOMAN. 

“ See, here the adventures of a very charming ’ass. 

By F. C. Philips, Author of ‘ As in a Looking-Glass. 

The characters are crisply sketched, the touch is true and bold ; 

The story's fresh and full of go, and capitally told. 

Why is it bound in lavender ? I am astonished— 

Why, ‘lay it up in lavender,” when bound to be well read V'— Punch. 

“The story is one of modern life, and, in happy contrast to most stories of the 
kind, there is nothing offensive in it. . . . The heroine, Marcia Conyers, is a fine 
girl, thoroughly English and perfectly natural. . . . It is a p easant, chatty story,” 
Vanity Fair. 

“ If Mr. Philips is a realist, as some of his critics declare, he is, at any rate, free 
from the oppressive gloom which prevades the works of many followers of that 
school. We can bestow unstinted praise on the unflagging spirit and genuine 
honour with which Mr. Philips tells his story. Sir Hugo Conyers, a sort of aristo- 
cratic Pecksniff, is an exceedingly clever sketch ; while Marcia, the ‘ lucky young 
woman,’ is an excellent specimen of a high-spirited and straightforward girl.”— 
Athenceum. 


LITTLE MRS. MURRAY. 

“ Mrs. Murray is an interesting personage in herself ; but the charm and clever- 
ness of the novel, which is exceedingly clever, lie in the quiet strength and inci- 
s veness of the delineations of the various characters and circles through which Mrs. 
Murray moves. They are described with insight, and with a felicity of language 
that makes many a good satirical point.”— Scotsman. 

“The book is, of course, well written, and reflects faithfully some phases of 
modern society, while it is quite free from dullness of the orthodox society novel.”— 
Morning Post. 

“Mr. Philips has a true eye for essentials in his picture of his own age,” — 
Daily News. 

“You must contrive the acquaintance of little Mrs. Murray. If Mr. Smith 
won’t introduce you to her, go to Mr. Mudie : but 1 think you will find that both of 
those respectable librarians know her very well, and will be very happy to assist 
you to an introduction to her. . . . She tells the story of her adventures as a 

widow in search of a livelihood naturally, vividly, and wittily.”— Vanity Fair. 


The Fatal Phryne 


■j» J 

/' - BY 

f/c^philips 

(Author of u As in a Looking Glass,” “ The Dean and His Daughter,” etc., etc.), 
AND 

C. T. WILLS. 




NEW YORK : 

FRANK F. LOVELL & COMPANY, 

142 and 144 Worth Street. 


PZ3 


Copyright, 1889, 

BY 

JOHN W. LOVELL. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


CHAPTER I. 

It was in a fashionable quarter of Paris, and yet it was 
a most unfashionable house. The architect had given free 
vent to his imagination in a gigantic and elaborately carved 
stone porte- cochire. It was big enough, ugly enough, 
and intricate enough for the mansion of a duke, or a newly 
decorated manufacturer. But from this sublime portal, 
this almost celestial gate, the artist had sunk to the extreme 
commonplace ; the rest of the house was nothing more 
or less than the beau ideal of the utilitarian school, all but 
the big studio which the owner of the place was apt to 
sarcastically term the fool’s paradise. This was particu- 
larly hard upon the fool, who had built it out of his own 
earnings, and left it to Dr. Tholozan, the present proprie- 
tor, his brother and only living relative. 

Dr. Tholozan was obliged to live in the house, for that was 
one of the conditions of the legacy ; and the doctor, at 
first very much against the grain, had taken a lodger in 
the shape of young Mr. Leigh, a very promising artist of 
the romantic school. Now young Leigh was a great 
contrast to most of his fellow- workers. Just as the aesthetic 
set some time ago in this country astonished us by their 


4 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


weird and wild attire, so does this romantic school in the 
cosmopolitan capital express its sentiments in its clothes. 
The man whose books nobody reads wears his hair of 
portentous length, or else clips it so close that he looks 
like an escaped lunatic. A black or brown velvet coat is 
de rigueur with this class, and as to their hats, they have 
to be made to order. It is strange that the disciples should 
differ so much from the master, who is a stout little old 
gentleman in spectacles. 

The painters go a step further : they, too, cling to the 
velvet coat with fond affection, and, like the convicts recent- 
ly emancipated, they find a fearful joy in the growth of their 
hair ; it hangs in wild profusion down their backs in a 
sort of leonine mane. Some of them even curl and oil it, 
while others rival Aaron himself in the lengths of their 
beards. Many get themselves up as nineteenth-century 
Van Dykes or modern Raphaels, while the stout ones 
model themselves upon Rubens ; most of the military 
painters riot in big moustachios or waxed imperials, and 
one and all pass more of their time in the cafes and on 
the boulevards than before their easels or their modelling 
boards. 

But young Mr. Leigh did none of these things, partly, 
perhaps, because he was an Englishman ; anyhow he was 
always neat and clean, and he worked so very hard that 
he had not the time to devote much study to the ornamen- 
tation of his own person. So he simply dressed neatly, 
and took his tub in the morning, and there was nothing 
peculiar in any way about him. He gave one the idea of 
a good-looking young fellow who dressed well and en- 
joyed life. He was not even of heroic stature, for he 
only stood five feet teil in his stockings ; but he was as 
hard as nails, and he had an honest eye and a clear com- 
plexion, though he did spend eight hours a day in the great 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


5 

studio which was once the paradise of the deceased fool, 
Dr. Tholozan’s brother. 

Though young Leigh was six-and-twenty he had never 
been in love. He had not had time for that either, — not 
that he had lacked opportunities. His models had looked 
at him in a pensive manner, but all in vain ; some of the 
more sentimental of his female patrons, who had sat to 
him for their portraits, — for it was in portraiture that 
Leigh had scored his first success, — had sighed and 
simpered at him, and had even asked him to dinner with 
obvious designs upon his heart ; but the sighs and the 
simpers had been wasted, and Leigh had warily declined 
the dinners. From portraiture, little by little, Leigh had 
drifted into the sentimental and the classical. Day by 
day his canvases had grown larger and larger, and it was 
the size of his canvases that had caused him to become 
Dr. Tholozan’s lodger, and the occupant of the big studio 
in the commonplace house with the great doorway. 

The doctor’s deceased brother had literally covered 
miles of canvas. Half the modern churches in France, 
and most of the public buildings, possessed one of his huge 
masterpieces. He was a man who had earned a large 
income, a man who had lived upon next to nothing, and 
who had expended the savings of a lifetime upon the 
building of the big house and the great studio. 

“ Once give me elbow-room,” the late Monsieur Tholo- 
zan had declared, “and I will make Michael Angelo and 
Rubens look to their laurels.” He got his elbow-room, 
but one still heard a great deal about Michael Angelo and 
Rubens, and the only person who ever spoke about the 
late Monsieur Tholozan was his brother, the doctor. 

When Dr. Tholozan inherited his brother’s property he 
tried very hard indeed to find a tenant for the studio. 
As a studio it was perfection, but the numerous artists 


6 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


who replied to the doctor’s advertisements were invari- 
ably appalled at its enormous size. But it was this very 
magnitude that caused young Leigh to close with the 
doctor at once ; it was the very thing he wanted. Of 
course the studio was lighted by an immense window. 
At one end was a door, hidden by a great gold-embroid- 
ered curtain of pink velvet, which opened into a big 
semi-circular conservatory filled with tropical plants. 
There was an immense fireplace in a big recess at the 
other end, and the great room was carefully heated with 
concealed hot-water pipes. There was a little ante-room 
and a small bedroom furnished with Spartan simplicity. 
Young Leigh and the doctor soon came to terms. Leigh 
took his meals with his landlord, a bachelor like 
himself ; and the two men were accustomed to spend 
their evenings together by the fireside in the big studio. 
In the day they never met. Dr. Tholozan was a lecturer 
at the Ecole de Medecine. He had many patients and a 
lucrative hospital appointment, and he wrote a good deal 
in the medical journals, being very fond of controversy. 
These two men’s liking was mutual. The artist, after a 
long day’s work enjoyed his evening’s gossip, or a quiet 
game of ecarte or backgammon with his landlord ; and the 
doctor was glad to return to what had been his old habit 
in his brother’s lifetime — the habitual chat by the studio 
fireside. 

Leigh and the doctor had inhabited the great house 
some four years ; they always dined together for mutual 
convenience, and as has been stated, always adjourned 
to the studio after dinner. They had played their rubber 
at backgammon, and were sitting each in his easy-chair 
on each side of the fire. 

“I’m sixty-one to-day,” remarked the doctor with a 
sigh ; “I envy you, my friend, you with the world before 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


7 

you, as I had it once. You have the ball at your feet, 
Leigh, and all you have to do is to go on kicking.” 

“But you can’t complain either, doctor. Everybody 
has heard of Dr. Tholozan, his reputation is world-wide ; 
while outside the little circle of artists, amateurs, literary 
men, and dealers I am unknown.” 

“ But you have your friends, Leigh.” 

“ C’est comme f a . I have a crowd of acquaintances if 
you choose to call them friends.” 

“ And admirers, Leigh — happy man — admirers of both 
sexes. ” 

The young man blushed a good honest, big blush. 

“You’re very wide of the mark, doctor. There are a 
good many well-dressed people who come here in the 
afternoon to waste their time and mine ; they come to 
look at the pictures merely. ” 

“And at the artist, my friend. The artist has a good 
deal to do with it. ” 

“Oh, of course I’m part of the shew, just like the 
monkeys in the Jardin des Plantes.” 

The doctor laughed. “ And they manifest their interest 
in you, my young friend, by sending you truffled turkeys, 
flowers, and trifles such as this,” and the doctor laughingly 
tapped his fingers upon a magnificent buhl table at his 
side. “Your friends must admire you very much, Leigh, 
both as an artist and as a man.” And the doctor's lan- 
tern jaws expanded with a hyaena-like smile, aiid he blew 
a great cloud of smoke into the air. 

Again the tell-tale blush mounted into the young Eng- 
lishman's face. 

“The gewgaws you are pleased to exercise your 
sarcasm upon, my dear doctor, are but the nuts with 
which they stuff the monkey.” 

“It’s an expensive nut, though that Madame Pichon 


8 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


has flung to her favorite ape.” And again the doctor 
tapped the table, and grinned diabolically. “You might 
do worse, Leigh,” he continued; “ Madame Pichon is 
still a magnificent animal, and rich a faire peur. Yes,” 
he added, as he rubbed his hands together, and deliber- 
ately cracked his finger-joints, “you really might do 
worse. The widow’s fortune, my young friend, is un- 
deniable. The late Monsieur Pichon died a millionaire.” 

“ I think I would rather break stones at the roadside 
than sell myself to a woman I didn’t care for. Stone 
breaking at least is honest, doctor, and has a kind of sor- 
did poetry of its own. An artist, my friend, has no need 
of a wife, his art is a sufficiently exacting mistress ; and, 
as for you, doctor, you have managed well enough with- 
out one.” 

“When you are sixty-one, my dear Leigh, as I am 
now, you will probably begin to think seriously of mar- 
riage. I believe in Bacon’s definition. I need a house- 
keeper, and shall want a nurse before long. Why 
shouldn’t I combine the two, and sanctify the arrange- 
ment by the sacred tie of marriage ?"” 

Young Leigh shrugged his shoulders, and he thought 
the doctor looked like a very hobgoblin as he put this 
very unromantic proposition. 

“ Why not, indeed,” he replied. “ It’s perhaps a little 
unromantic ; but if that is your ideal wife, why not ? ” 

‘ ( Do you think, then, that it would be a prudent step at 
my age ? ” 

“You are far too wise, doctor, for an inexperienced 
man like myself to suggest that any act you contemplated 
would be imprudent.” 

“You deal in sugared compliments, my friend; Ma- 
dame Pichon and the rest of them are making quite 
a man of the world of you. But if I for forty years 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


9 

have been looking for an ideal, why shouldn’t I have 
found her at last in some pleasant-looking woman, say of 
five-and-thirty, who will look after my wants, forgive my 
little peculiarities, and preside at the terribly dull dinner 
which I am accustomed to give once a week — a lady who 
would be content to smooth my downward path, and then 
replace me by her ideal, who perhaps she may already 
have her eye upon ? ” 

“Every one to his taste, doctor; you certainly call a 
spade a spade. ” 

“Possibly in my case, Leigh, age has brought with it 
humility. Your idea of matrimony is doubtless a higher 
one. My dear young Abelard, describe to me the Heloise 
of your dreams ; but moderate your transports, soften 
down your raptures in consideration of my poorer and 
more prosaic nature. ” The doctor lit a second cigar, and 
the young man rose to his feet, and commenced to pace 
the thick Turkey carpet with hurried strides. 

“She is as yet but a vision of my dreams. I see her 
but vaguely, ever changing, as do the pictures in a 
kaleidoscope, and then I try to realize her, but I am never 
satisfied with my own work. The pictures that leave my 
easel are but dreams of fair women, after all ; indistinct 
souvenirs, impossibilities and exaggerations, — monsters 
that I have pieced and patched together, artistic Franken- 
steins that I hate as soon as I have finished them. I gaze 
at them with a sort of horror. Look at the last,” he said, 
with a deprecatory laugh. “Well, I sold it for four thou- 
sand francs, and that’s the best I can say for it. Israels, 
the dealer, will sell it for as much again. And when I 
look at it I hate myself. What is it, after all, but a half- 
clad simpering impossibility, a miserable imposture ? 
The lower extremities are Julie Pasdeloup, the arms are 


IO 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


bought at five francs an hour of an ugly Breton girl with 
red hair, the face is but a tricky composition ” 

“While the hair is rather a glorious rendering of 
Madam Pichon’s chevelure, eh, my young friend ? Ma- 
dame Pichon must take an extraordinary interest in art, and 
particularly in the works of young Mr. Leigh, to have let 
down her magnificent tresses. I suppose she sat for love ? ” 

“Or vanity, whichever you please to call it, doctor,” 
answered the artist with a laugh. “Anyhow, the mon- 
ster is finished,” he continued ; “it is but a sort of com- 
plicated Siamese twin ; and to-morrow Israels will come 
and grin before it, and gloat upon it, and rub his hands, 
and order another like it, and I shall go on completing 
the tale of bricks without straw. Another canvas will be 
strained, and another monster turned out at so much a 
square foot” 

“And young Mr. Leigh will be no nearer his ideal 
than ever, eh? You should go out into the world, my 
friend ; society would, as you know, receive you with 
open arms. In society you would have the opportunity 
of observing the manners and customs of the young, the 
ingenuous, and the innocent of the opposite sex ; why not 
seek your ideal there ? ” and the doctor chuckled. ‘ ‘ Or 
have hours spent in the society of Mademoiselle Pasde- 
loup, and the young lady with the beautiful arms and the 
red hair spoilt you for the conventional ingenue of every- 
day life ? ” 

“ You’re too hard on me, old friend. The Pasdeloup is 
to me but a pair of well-turned limbs ; she interests me 
socially as little as do the dreadful things you showed me 
at the Musee Orfila in the glass jars. They are too 
human, though ; like the Pasdeloup, they are but anatom- 
ical studies. If I could only find her — this ideal that we 
all dream of, and look for, as the old Spaniards, ever dis- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


1 1 


appointed and ever hoping on, searched with unfailing 
energy for the visionary country of El Dorado — if I could 
only find her, I would clap her at once into the big picture 
I am meditating for this year's Salon. The sketch is 
finished to-day." 

“And the subject, my enthusiastic young friend; you 
haven't told me your subject yet ? ” 

“Oh, it’s a hackneyed subject enough. Phryne before 
the Tribunal. It will be my protest against the successful 
abominations of the day. The Realists are ruining our 
nineteenth-century taste. Is it not a crying shame," said 
the young fellow, with enthusiasm in his tone and fire in 
his eyes, “ that a crowd five deep should stand in rapture 
before La Dame au Perroquet, a disgraceful nudity spraul- 
ing upon a heap of cushions, the triumph of the gross, 
the senuous, and the real ? There shall be nothing gross 
about my Phryne, and yet she shall be beautiful ; the figure 
shall ennoble the subject, and raise it from the depths of 
the commonplace to the Sublime and Poetical." 

“ Ah, my poor brother was always striving after the 
Sublime ; he never reached it ; he succeeded, though, in 
attaining the Gigantic. Poor fellow, he used to go into 
raptures over Gericault’s great monstrosity, the Wreck of 
the Medusa , with the lurid lights and ghastly corpses ; 
and he used to chuckle as he told me how Dreux d’Orcy 
declined to cut it up into four for a paltry profit of twenty 
thousand francs. He was an enthusiast in his way, a 
worshipper of the immense. This huge barrack was the 
result. It has been to me a lasting monument of my poor 
brother's great ideas. I fear sometimes that you artists, 
in your search for the ideal, often succeed in discovering 
only the ridiculous." 

There was a pause ; the two men smoked on in silence. 
It was broken at length by Dr. Tholozan, 


12 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


“ You’ve been fairly comfortable here, Leigh, for the 
last few years, I trust ? ” 

The artist looked at him inquiringly. "Of course I 
have, doctor ; why do you ask me ? ” 

" Because I am about to take a step which may incom- 
mode us both, my young friend. Don’t be surprised, 
don’t be disgusted ; above all, don’t remonstrate. Within 
the week I shall probably marry.” 

“ Ah, the pleasant-looking woman of five-and-thirty 
you’ve been talking about, doctor ; the genial lady, who 
is to smoothe your declining years ! ” 

" It were better, perhaps, if it had been so. I haven’t 
been accepted yet, however. The lady may prefer honor- 
able poverty and the possibilities that always loom in the 
future of every pretty woman.” 

"She is pretty, then ? ” 

"Yes, she is more than pretty. She is, I suppose, what 
you would call beautiful. See if she approaches your 
ideal, Leigh,” and Dr. Tholozan handed a photograph to 
his friend. 

As the artist gazed upon the portrait he gave a start of 
astonishment. 

"You approve of her, my young friend? Hein, she 
meets with your approbation ? ” 

"She is very lovely, doctor.” 

"Well, Leigh, you will probably have the opportunity 
of telling her that yourself.” And the candidate for mat- 
rimony laughed a little mocking sardonic laugh. 

But the young fellow did not reply, he was still intently 
studying the portrait. And the more he looked at it the 
more astonished he became. 

"You don’t congratulate me, Leigh. Oh, don’t apolo- 
gize,” he said, as the artist began a muttered excuse. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


13 


“ Frankly, you are rather surprised at my good fortune. 
Is it not so ? ” 

“ I am lost in admiration of the lady’s beauty, doctor.” 

“Meditate on it, then, at your leisure, and keep the 
photograph. It may be useful to you,” added this hate- 
ful personage, “from an artistic point of view.” 

Young Leigh stared at the doctor'^" astonishment, and 
indistinctly muttered his thanks ; arid then his eyes were 
once more irresistibly drawn back to the portrait, as by a 
magnetic attraction. 

“You think I’m making a fool of myself?” continued 
the elder man. “Listen to her story. I have educated 
the original of that portrait from childhood. She is now 
a woman. To-morrow I shall place before her a simple 
proposition ; if she chooses, I am ready to marry her. Or 
if it so please her, she can remain where she is as one of 
the teachers of the school in which she has been educated, 
and I will add to her slender stipend from my own re- 
sources. The child has no real claim on me, and I should 
be the last man to impose myself upon her from a mis- 
taken feeling of gratitude. She is hardly likely to find her 
ideal in me ; but she will marry me, Leigh, all the same. 
Fling a bone to a hungry dog, the animal snaps it up at 
once. I am the bone — a dry and ugly bone.” And the 
doctor gazed into space, and waited for some answering 
remark from his companion. 

The artist did not reply. He seemed still lost in con- 
templation of the portrait. Soft, sad, dreamy eyes looked 
out at him, as though seeking for sympathy. The pose 
was unstudied and graceful in its artless simplicity. There 
was a softness, which almost amounted to weakness, in 
the expressive mouth ; and all unconsciously, as he gazed 
at it, the time slipped by in silence, unbroken save by the 
loud ticking of the great Louis Quinze clock, and the louder 


14 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


beating of his own heart, a sound which the young fellow 
almost feared would reach his companion's ears. It may 
seem ludicrous, but that was the thought which passed 
through young Leigh’s brain. 

“ I have succeeded in astonishing you, at all events,” 
said Dr. Tholozan. “I sha’n’t see you again for a week ; 
then I shall introduce to you my bride, or I shall return a 
rejected man to receive the consolations of your friend- 
ship. You don’t wish me luck — that’s a bad omen, 
though gamblers think otherwise. Well, after all, mar- 
riage is a lottery, so perhaps your silence may bring me 
luck. Who knows ? Good-night, my friend, I must 
retire to try and get a quiet night’s rest previous to the 
detestable journey of to-morrow. I shall be at Banque- 
routeville-sur-Mer by noon. I’ll write you the lady’s 
decision. Oh, keep the photograph ; good-night.” 

They shook hands, and the doctor went out of the 
studio whistling a tune — the air was “ Malbrouck s’enva 
ten guerre. ” 


THE FATAL PHKYNE . 


*5 


CHAPTER II. 

Quite disregarding the unities, let us go back for forty- 
eight hours. 

The weather in Paris was hateful. The Boulevardiers 
had fled ; the English and American tourists had arrived 
in their thousands ; the personally-conducted flew about 
in great char-a-bancs , and were dragged to the Morgue 
with its ghastly terrors, to the highest steeples of all the 
churches, up the Tower of Saint Jacques, down into the 
Catacombs, and even into the very sewers themselves, — 
for the sewers are one of the sights in Paris ; and an 
American would feel that he had been wanting in his duty 
to his country and himself, if he had missed a single glory 
of the great and beautiful city, which his fellow-country- 
men consider is the outward and visible symbol of heaven 
itself. 

Even the Quartier Latin was deserted, for the long 
summer holidays had just commenced ; and though there 
was a large contingent who returned to their quarters at 
night-time, during the day they fled from the great heat 
to the pleasures of boating on the river at Auteuil or else- 
where, picnicking and bathing. Your aquatic Parisian is a 
thing of beauty. He dresses for the part : he wears knee- 
breeches, butcher boots, a solar topee, a gay sash of gaudy 
colors wound around his waist, a still gayer one care- 
lessly knotted round his neck, while a striped jersey, of at 
least three colors, completes his startling costume. And 
when he returns to town at dusk, triumphant, the Gallic 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


1 6 

Tom Tug finishes the evening at the Closerie des Lilas or 
some kindred resort with Wilhelmina arrayed in all the 
glories of a tumbled but voluminous muslin gown, and 
the pair dance the cancan with untiring energy, till ex- 
hausted nature can no more. The artists, too, had gone 
off in a body in search of the picturesque, and the fashion- 
ables were drinking the waters, or disporting themselves 
at the numerous Bains-de-mer. But young Leigh was still 
manfully working away in his great studio, which was 
possibly the coolest place in all Paris, and Madame Pichon 
was still postponing her annual flight. 

Dr. Tholozan had in no way exaggerated when he had 
stated that the deceased Monsieur Pichon was a million- 
aire. He had married Mademoiselle Sophie Plon because 
of her unmistakable good looks ; in fact, he had bartered 
a very heavy settlement for a magnificent complexion, a 
pair of brilliant laughing black eyes, and a head of hair 
reaching the young lady’s feet. Nor had he made a bad 
bargain. These chattels were universally admired when- 
ever he appeared with his young wife. But the old gen- 
tleman did not live long to enjoy his triumph. Six months 
after the wedding Monsieur Pichon had died, and had left 
every farthing he possessed in the world to his young 
widow. For the first three months the widow’s grief had 
been something terrible to witness. At the very mention 
of the name of the late Monsieur Pichon she would 
burst into tears. She had caused an immense white 
marble sarcophagus to be erected in one of the best posi- 
tions in Pere la Chaise, regardless of expense. At her 
desire her cousin Dr. Tholozan had composed a pompous 
Latin epitaph, which was affixed to the sarcophagus in 
letters of brass. The widow had gone into the most 
elaborate mourning, and was a daily attendant at mass ; 
but with the sudden fickleness of female nature she had 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


1 7 

cast the mourning off because young George Leigh — speak- 
ing as an artist, and consequently as an authority — had in 
a moment of weakness stated that black was unbecoming 
to her. The very next day Madame Pichon appeared in 
the studio — for she naturally passed a good deal of her 
time at Dr. Tholozan’s house, he being, as has been said, 
her near relative — in a delicious costume of the palest 
lavender. At that time she was amusing herself by posing 
for the artist as “Niobe Dissolved in Tears.” He had 
just completed a study of her as “ Sigismonda mournfully 
gazing on the Golden Casket which contained the Heart of 
her Guiscardo.” 

“Ah, Monsieur George,” she cried, as she burst into 
the studio of the astonished young man, “don’t think 
hardly of me because I’ve left off my dreadful black. I’ve 
done it as a duty, Monsieur George ; one must suffer to be 
beautiful, and I have done violence to my own feelings 
purely in the interests of art, and for your sake, dear 
Monsieur George,” she added with a little sigh. “I felt 
that it was a duty, that your divine inspirations should not 
be interfered with. Me void How do I do? ” and the 
radiant vision made a little curtsey. 

“Dear Madame Pichon, you are charming, always 
charming, of course ; but upon my word I think you are 
less like Niobe than ever. ” 

“You don’t want me to be always like Niobe, do you, 
dear Monsieur George ? ” said the young widow with a 
little pout, and something sparkled in her brilliant eyes 
which might have been a tear-drop, but seemed more like 
a little look of triumph. “I don’t care what you say,” she 
added pettishly, “ Niobe could not have gone on weeping 
forever. ” 

“Ah, but think of the loss of her twelve children, deaf 
madame. ” 


8 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


“Twelve!” cried the lady with horror; “then she 
couldn’t have kept her good looks, and she must have 
been a most uninteresting person, if not indeed positively 
indecent. And I don’t think it’s a very great compliment 
on your part to choose me as her representative. ’’ 

“Ah, madame, ” said the artist apologetically, “to me 
you have been the living incarnation of disconsolate 
woe. ” 

“But at all events I can’t express woe in my hair, and 
it’s the hair you’re going to do to-day, Monsieur George, 
is it not? How will this do?” she continued, as she 
dropped languidly into the big chair, flinging herself into 
the sort of pose which we see in those who are about to 
be photographed. Madame Pichon was a lady who made 
the most of her advantages, for she was bent on the con- 
quest of the artist, and she meant to marry him. She had 
tried every means of making him aware of her personal 
attractions, but young Leigh had as yet exhibited no sign 
of making love to her. She had told him how rich, how 
lonely, and how miserable she was, but all in vain. 

“Ah, dear madame,” said Leigh, “I couldn’t think of 
wasting your time by asking you to pose for the hair ; the 
charming face is already sufficient for my purpose.” 

Madame Pichon’s foot, which by a severe critic might 
have been considered a little too much in evidence, beat 
impatiently at the horribly practical answer she had re- 
ceived from the artist. “And why not, sir, pray?” she 
asked. 

“Well, for one reason, dear Madame Pichon, because 
the hair of Niobe must be dishevelled, and it would be 
rather too great a tax upon your good nature to ask you to 
disarrange those lovely tresses. ” 

“Monsieur Leigh, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the 
sake of art. But you’re only sarcastic ; you’re just like the 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


19 

rest of your sex. Men are always sarcastic and cruel/' the 
young widow added with a little sigh. “What you really 
mean is that you fancy what you call my ‘ lovely tresses,' 
in your cruel mocking way, are not my own. You shall 
soon be undeceived. There ! Monsieur George, and 
there ! and there ! and there ! " and before the astonished 
man knew where he was the indignant enthusiast for art 
had plucked out every comb and hair-pin, and released a 
wild profusion of waving chestnut locks. 

“It's all my own," cried the lady, who was on her 
mettle. ( ‘ And now hear your punishment, sir. I con- 
demn you to arrange it to your liking. There is no sacri- 
fice, I repeat, Monsieur George, that I wouldn't make for 
the advancement of art. " 

The young man blushed ; there was nothing else for it 
but obedience. He stepped up on to the stage upon 
which the lady was seated, and his very fingers trembled 
as they received little electric shocks as he deftly arranged 
the luxuriant tresses of the late Monsieur Pichon's widow. 
Then he took refuge behind his easel, where he remained 
in retirement for some minutes. 

At this interesting moment the artist’s landlord and the 
lady’s cousin entered the room. 

“ Bonjour, Sophie," Dr. Tholozan said with a careless 
nod, and then he gave a little chuckle. “You're actually 
taking the bread out of the mouths of the professional 
models." 

“ Don’t speak to me, Felix. If a single hair were to be- 
come disarranged the whole effect might be destroyed. 

I am Misery personified. " 

“ All Paris knows it," he said. “Yes, the resemblance 
is striking, my dear. You are evidently the original of 
the ‘Lady with the Mane,' the enchantress who smiles 
upon us, twenty times larger than life, as the advertise- 


20 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


ment of an American hair-wash. Leigh, I congratulate 
you ; in fact, I congratulate you both. ” 

“Felix, I'm ashamed of you," said the lady, “there is 
no subject sacred enough to be safe from your attempts 
at wit. I am Niobe, sir," she added severely. 

“Oh, very possibly, my dear, anything you like. You 
may be Medusa, or St Cecilia, or Venus Anadyomene, or 
Venus Victrix, for the matter of that. From a profession- 
al point of view, I should rather say you look like the God- 
dess of Health. But I won’t interrupt you longer. Good- 
bye, Niobe. Farewell, Galatea. An revoir, Pygmalion ! 
we shall meet at dinner ; " and he discreetly disappeared. 

“ Now that’s exactly like Felix," said the lady ; “just 
as we were getting on so nicely, when we were so com- 
fortable," she added, with a sort of purr, “he comes and 
upsets us both, and makes me move my head, and calls 
us dreadful names. I've no patience with Felix. What 
would he think, I wonder, were I to burst into his con- 
sulting-room when he was engaged with his patients ? 
You’ll have to arrange it all again, Mr. Leigh," she said 
coquettishly, and the artist, blushing like a peony, emerged 
from his temporary concealment. 

“ Now I know what you want to do," said the lady, 
“ you’re dying to smoke. Don’t mind me. I’ll be bound 
that were I a model you’d smoke without ceremony. I 
don’t dislike tobacco in the least. Indeed, I am quite 
used to it, for the late Monsieur Pichon used to smoke 
from morning till night. Shall you be dreadfully horri- 
fied if I tell you a secret ? He actually taught me to 
smoke, and to make my own cigarettes, too, for the 
matter of that. Let me make you a cigarette. There’s 
nothing I enjoy more than making a cigarette," and 
Niobe proceeded to fashion with nimble fingers a little 
white cylinder of Turkish tobacco, for she found the ma- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


21 


terials ready to her hand on a big oak table that was 
standing by the easel. She presented it to Leigh with a 
little artless curtsey, and handed him a lighted vesta, then 
she dexterously twisted up a second, and coiling herself 
up in the big chair, she proceeded to consume it with 
evident gusto. “ Don't you hate interruptions, Monsieur 
Leigh ? ” she said meditatively. 

“Every one when in your society, madame, is bound 
to do so.” 

“Of course that is what you must say, Monsieur 
George. I wonder whether you really mean it/' 

“Sincerity is one of my few virtues, madame; but it 
has stood in my way a good deal. I can’t paint the 
hideous and the repulsive, for I can’t soften it down ; in 
fact, I’ve become a sort of merciless human camera ; and 
— I paint people as I see them, and not as they would 
wish to be. I can’t gild the gingerbread. I can’t glorify. 
I wish I could. I’m a great deal too sincere, Madame 
Pichon. Look at this, for instance,” and the young fel- 
low dragged out a canvas which had been turned to the 
wall. It was the grinning portrait of all that is bold and 
bad that can be conceived in the face of an apparently 
young and handsome woman. “That,” said Leigh, “is 
Mademoiselle Saint Ventadour of the Palais Royal. She 
offered me a commission for a portrait of herself as 
‘Comedy.’ She is supposed to be all that is most fasci- 
nating, all that is most attractive. In a word, she is the 
fashion. Whenever the Saint Ventadour plays the house 
is full. She is a fortune to the photographers. I see 
nothing attractive in her ; to me she is but a grinning 
cat.” Madame Pichon smiled approvingly. “In a 
moment of weakness I accepted the commission. She 
came here with her respectable mamma, who took snuff 
at intervals of three minutes. Each sitting had its special 


22 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


mischance. At the first one, being arrayed in a cream- 
colored satin dress, she had the misfortune to sit down 
on my carefully prepared palette. But she was a good- 
natured woman, and she accepted my excuses. During 
the whole of the second sitting a crowd of the habitues of 
the Palais Royal dropped in one by one, and they stood 
round her in an admiring semi-circle. The hubbub was 
something terrific ; it reminded me of the foyer de la danse 
of the Grand Opera. It was almost impossible to work, 
and at last I told her so. She dismissed them, and then 
she said, ‘ Monsieur Leigh, I have a character to lose, and 
I don’t care to be alone with you even though my dear 
mother is present.’ ‘Madame,’ said I, for I was angry, 

‘ that is no reason why all your admirers should follow 
you into my studio.’ ‘Yours is a large studio, Monsieur 
Leigh,’ she said, with one of her loudest professional 
laughs, ‘ for all I know it may be the largest studio in 
Paris ; but let me tell you, that, large as it is, it is incap- 
able of accommodating even a hundredth part of those 
you are pleased to term my ‘admirers,’ and then she 
snapped her fingers in my face. ” 

“It’s horrible,” said Madame Pichon ; “you have my 
sincere sympathy, poor Monsieur George.” 

“Oh, that was nothing to what followed. I hadn’t 
allowed her to look at the canvas. At the end of the 
third sitting she insisted on doing so. There was nothing 
for it. I turned the easel round, and if ever I saw a 
woman in a passion I saw one then. At first she didn’t 
utter a word, then she turned deadly pale, she clenched 
her fists, she stamped her foot. ‘Sir,’ she cried, in her 
harsh strident voice — for it was the woman who spoke 
and not the actress — ‘I had invited you to idealize me as 
the Muse of Comedy ; you have perpetrated a base, a 
wicked, and infamous caricature. You have represented 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


2 3 


me as a' — and here she sobbed bitterly — ‘a minx, Mon- 
sieur Leigh. But I will have my revenge ; I’m not so 
utterly friendless, Monsieur Leigh, as you may suppose. 
My friends shall write you down ; they shall annihilate 
you, they shall ruin you. Come, mamma, let us leave 
the studio of this wretch, who does not hesitate to insult a 
defenceless girl, (she is forty, if she’s a day). With one 
indignant sweep of her hand she knocked down, and 
smashed into a thousand pieces a beautiful vase of antique 
faience. ‘Mamma/ she added, ‘give your arm to your 
insulted child/ and then, with her handkerchief pressed to 
her great painted eyes, she left the place. So you see my 
sincerity stood in my way, for I painted her as I saw her. 
She is a minx, at least in my eyes.” 

“Turn her to the wall again,” said the widow, with a 
pretty shudder, “she frightens me. But your story re- 
minds me of the fact that I haven’t seen Niobe yet. Tell 
me, Monsieur George,” and the widow laid her hand 
pleadingly on the artist’s arm, “you haven’t made a minx 
of me ? ” 

It is scarcely probable that young Leigh would have 
been quite so ready to swing his easel round upon his 
its castors, if the yet unfinished Niobe had not really been 
a great success. It was indeed charming, and Madame 
Pichon was delighted, and clapped her hands with almost 
childish glee. And yet the artist had done his pretty 
model little more than justice. It was the picture of a 
pretty woman in tears certainly ; but if the Niobe on the 
canvas was the mother of twelve children she certain- 
ly did not look her age. The figure was merely sketched 
in with charcoal, but the face and hands were elaborately 
finished. The artist had slightly idealized the young 
widow from a child of earth with golden hair into a sort 
of rapturous weeping angel, the big black eyes flashed out 


24 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


at you with a hungry, loving look, which certainly very 
much resembled the glances which young Madame Pichon 
habitually cast upon Dr. Tholozan’s lodger. He might 
call her Niobe, or the Peri at the Gate, or by any other 
romantic epithet. One saw a pretty woman in tears, it 
is true ; but the picture gave you the idea that the tears 
were not very briny, nor very difficult to dry. In fact, 
Niobe was so undeniably pretty as to make the picture 
already almost objectionable to every ordinary female 
mind. 

“And you say you never flatter, Monsieur. Tell me, 
really, does it please you — my portrait ; for it is my 
portrait? Oh, Monsieur George,” cried the widow, as 
she sprang to her feet, “how can I ever thank you!” 
and she seized both his hands. 

It is a trying position for any man when a young and 
pretty woman seizes him by both hands, thanks him with 
effusion, and gazes lovingly into his eyes. Such are not 
the experiences of ordinary men ; but artists are a favored 
race. Now if young Leigh had been an ordinary human 
being, he would have flung himself upon his knees at 
once, and made Madame Pichon an offer of his hand and 
heart. Anyhow, he could not have had a better op- 
portunity. Madame Pichon would have been delighted, 
and Dr. Tholozan would have been perfectly satisfied, 
Society would have clapped its well-gloved hands in an 
applauding chorus, and young Leigh’s crowd of Bohemian 
friends would have slapped him on the back till he was 
sore, and voted him a devilish clever fellow.” But artists 
are not as other men are. George Leigh simply held 
pretty Madame Pichon’s two hands in his own, failed 
to return their enthusiastic pressure, and made a particular- 
ly stupid speech. He stared into her face, he gazed into 
her great dreamy black eyes with no loving look, but 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


25 


merely with a sort of critical admiration, just as the judge 
at a horse-show might inspect the points of a champion 
prize-winner. Madame Pichon felt a cold thrill run 
through her, and a sensation of a ball rising in her throat, 
when, instead of the declaration she honestly expected, 
he simply faltered out : 

“No madame, it does not satisfy me, your eyes beat 
me altogether ; if you don’t mind giving me another 
quarter of an hour, I’ll try what I can do with the hair.” 

The wretch’s cigarette had not even gone out. 

“As you please, Monsieur George,” the lady said in a 
disappointed tone ; and as the young man led her to a 
seat she looked more like Niobe than she had ever looked 
before. 

“Ah,” she thought, “how terribly unimpressionable 
are these perfidious islanders, these cold, these icy English- 
men,” and her breast heaved with indignation and pique. 
And then the artist calmly rearranged — or rather dis- 
arranged — once more the abundant tresses of her luxuriant 
hair, and then he retired again behind the big canvas. 

“The wretch,” said the widow to herself, — “the cold 
unimpassioned, unimpressionable wretch ; how different, 
how very different would have been the conduct under 
such circumstances of the late Monsieur Pichon.” And 
her thoughts wandered involuntarily to the great marble 
tomb in the cemetry of Pere la Chaise, and two real tears 
of grief, or mortification, appeared between the long dark 
lashes that fringed her lovely eyes. 

Yes, George Leigh was evidently what the French call 
“a Joseph” — a heartless, wicked Joseph of the blackest 
dye. 

“I’m afraid I give you a great deal of trouble,” said the 
enamored widow, after a long pause. 

“Trouble, dear madame! No, indeed, you are the 


26 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


most satisfactory of models. As a rule they will talk, 
and I’m sure you haven’t said a word for the last ten 
minutes. And they generally talk such nonsense, — such 
particularly bald nonsense, too. Would you mind raising 
the chin a very little, so that I may try and catch the 
glint of light upon the hair ? ” 

“Ah," thought Niobe, as she did as she was bid, “ it’s 
of his picture he’s thinking, and not of me. I verily be- 
lieve he only thinks of me as a sort of superior lay- figure. 
And she cast a spiteful glance at the jointed life-size papier- 
mache dummy, which stood ready-draped as Niobe in the 
corner of the studio. “And what are you going to do 
with me, Monsieur George, when I’m finished?” She 
asked with some curiosity. 

“Oh, I shall send you to the Salon/’ said the artist, 
with calm satisfaction. 

“And sell me? ” said the widow in a solemn tone. 

“Oh, dear me, no,” said the artist, as he critically re- 
garded his work. “ I sold you long ago. Israels takes 
all my work.” 

The widow gave a low sob. But the sob passed all un- 
noticed by the enthusiast behind the canvas. 

There was once more silence. 

Here was a piece of heartless ingratitude ! Was it for 
this that pretty Madame Pichon had sat as if she were 
turned to stone for so many mortal hours, merely that her 
lovely lineaments should be re-produced by a mercenary 
foreigner, only to be trafficked away for the unromantic 
bank-notes of a sordid commercial Jew ? No ! Flesh and 
blood could not bear it. And pretty Madame Pichon, 
who was unmistakable flesh and blood, rose indignantly 
to her feet. 

“I’m not feeling well, Monsieur Leigh,” she said, with 
tears in her voice. “There are moments when the re- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


27 


membrance of my poor dear Pichon, and the thought of 
what I have lost, and the thousand-and-one affectionate 
little solicitudes of that dear departed angel, upsets me al- 
together. Y ou must excuse me now, ” she added hurriedly, 
as she carefully rearranged her chestnut tresses before 
Leigh’s big Venetian mirror. They were angry eyes 
that that mirror reflected ! 

“I can never sufficiently express my gratitude, dear 
madame,” said the artist. 

“Don’t speak to me, Monsieur. Leigh,” she exclaimed, 
with an impatient gesture waving him off, “ my heart is 
too full.” And so saying the irate widow dashed out of 
the room, and if ever that studio door was slammed, it 
was slammed then. 

‘‘Women are strange creatures,” muttered Leigh to 
himself, as he went on, from memory, putting lights and 
shadows into the hair. “She must have been awfully fond 
of Monsieur Pichon, poor thing ! ” And then he began 
to whistle, 


“Je suis le mari de la reine. — 
Ri de la reine, ri de la reine” 


28 


THE FATAL FHRYNE. 


CHAPTER III. 

We all knowBanquerouteville-sur-Mer. In the good old 
days when sheriffs officers had a “high old time ” ; and 
when British spendthrifts, like Joseph of old, were per- 
petually being cast into prison. Banquerouteville-sur- 
Mer was the much-desired haven of rest for the debtor 
who couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. Banquerouteville is gay 
and cheap, twenty-five francs go to the pound ; and 
a franc is any day as good as a shilling, or rather better, 
in Banquerouteville. Captains Raggs and Famish, though 
denied the pleasures of Cremorne, could dance in the 
dust at the Tintelleries with the crispest of little French 
fisher-maidens, and together with Mr. Seedyman, late of 
Newmarket, they could wind up their evening with a 
snug little supper at the cafe on the pier, or with the 
cheaper joys of bad oysters at threepence a dozen. 
Seedyman and his friends could live for next to nothing — 
particularly in the winter — at any of the cheap hotels or 
boarding-houses with which the place swarms. 

The general plea of Britishers for a prolonged residence 
at Banquerouteville-sur-Mer was its advantages, from an 
educational point of view ; and truth to tell, there are 
almost as many schools in the place as there are hotels 
and pensions. There is no doubt whatever about the 
air, the country is charming, the bathing perfect, and 
rents are low. 

About a mile out of the town is the Chateau des Tourter- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


29 

elles. Now the Chateau des Tourterelles has rejoiced in its 
name for the last hundred and fifty years ; and though 
the evil-minded would chuckle and make bad jokes on 
the coincidence, it was a purely fortuitous circumstance 
that the Chateau des Tourterelles was what we should call 
in good plain English, a girl’s boarding-school. Madame 
Pouilly, the principal, was an extremely clever person, 
and, if ever there was one, a woman of the world. Many 
years ago she had bought the business, paying a good 
round sum for it ; and from the first she made it answer 
from a financial point of view. She did not underfeed 
her girls ; she did not overwork them ; but she insisted 
that the article that went through her educational mill 
should be turned out, in appearance at least, as a well- 
mannered young lady of high principle. When she was 
unfortunate enough to get hold of a real black sheep, 
Madame Pouilly did not hesitate for an instant, she ex- 
pelled the offender from the heaven of the Chateau 
des Tourterelles, to the outer darkness beyond its little 
world. 

The day had been a busy one. The big schoolroom 
had been swept and garnished. Three hundred cane-bot- 
tomed chairs, duly numbered and arranged in rows, had 
held the three hundred friends and relatives of Madame 
Pouilly and her eighty boarders. The professors, ranged 
in a semi-circle, had presented an imposing array — there 
had been a round dozen of them — and they looked— for 
that one day in the year, at all events — twelve academi- 
cians at the very least. They had all donned the regulation 
white cravat, which is the sign with Frenchmen of a seri- 
ous function. Even Herr Dummer, the German professor 
(in France all teachers are professors ; it costs nothing 
and sounds well) had actually washed his hands for the 
august ceremony, and had been temporarily deprived, to 


3 ° 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


his intense discomfort, of his eternal snuff-box. As for Ma- 
dame herself, there was something sublimely awful about 
her ; her rich black dress of corded silk, whose stiffness 
would be more correctly described by a reference to plate 
armor than to the traditional deal board, inspired terror 
and respect among the male portion of the audience, and 
undisguised envy among the ladies. There was no gentle 
frou-frou about Madame’s dress — it absolutely creaked. 

The vicaire of the cathedral presided. As for the eighty 
young ladies, they all looked pictures of health and hap- 
piness, for the ceremonial was the public distribution of 
prizes, and at its conclusion Madame Pouillys establish- 
ment would break up for the summer holidays. 

The young ladies sang, they played their Chopin ; they 
recited their Racine ; and at each fresh effort the discreet 
applause of the delighted audience became louder. Then 
the old vicaire gave away the prizes, and ended his task 
by placing on the head of the eldest and prettiest of Ma- 
dame Pouilly’s girls a laurel wreath, as the prize of gen- 
eral good conduct and continuous progress. We, in 
England, should look upon this latter performance as in- 
tensely ridiculous ; but in France it is not so regarded, 
and the pupil who is lucky enough to be decorated with 
the wreath is as proud of the simple trophy as were the 
successful athletes at the Olympian games of old. And 
now the vicaire made a pretty little speech. He told his 
audience that “that day was a momentous one for some 
of them ; that from that day some of them would be de- 
prived of the advice and the more than motherly care of 
his dear old friend, Madame Pouilly ; that henceforward 
their trust must be in Heaven and themselves. ” And then 
the vicaire improved the occasion. There were a good 
many moist eyes among the elder girls. And the cere- 
mony concluded, the audience filed out, the professors 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


31 


bowed to their pupils and to the guests, and the young 
ladies were left to their own devices. 

All the girls were looking flushed and excited after the 
ceremonial of the distribution of prizes — the great annual 
event of their young lives. There was not a girl amongst 
the whole of Madame Pouilly’s pupils who had not re- 
ceived at least one crimson-covered book with gilt edges. 
Even the stupid red-cheeked daughter of the grocer in the 
Grande Rue — who was currently reported to be received 
on the mutual system — the natural butt of the entire bevy 
of artless and artful girls, and the upper part of whose fat 
arms were black with frequent pinching, proudly clutched 
a huge volume of poetry for the young, the well-earned 
reward of her progress in the useful art of plain needle- 
work. They were all dressed in their best, and all in 
white too for the matter of that — a color which became 
the little ones, but hardly suited the great majority of the 
pupils who were, of course, what are termed growing 
girls — unhappy creatures whose feet, hands, and elbows 
appeared for the present, at least, to be abnormally devel- 
oped. They resembled young puppies in many other 
ways ; their enormous appetites were only equalled by 
their high spirits ; careless of the future, they enjoyed the 
present, and, like the puppies, all their troubles were to 
come. 

One girl alone presented a striking contrast to the rest 
of Madame Pouilly’s pensionnaires. She alone, among 
the chattering crowd, could be described as really grace- 
ful. There was a pensive expression in the lovely face, 
and a far-away look about her big, clear, honest blue eyes. 
Her hair, like that of the rest of her companions, was de- 
murely braided, according to the stern and classic rule of 
Madame Pouilly’s establishment; but twist and torture 
her luxuriant blonde tresses as she might, rebellious little 


THE FATAL FHRYNE. 


3 2 

curls and love locks would burst out here and there. It 
was magnificent hair, and there was an abundance of it ; 
but its quantity was not its only characteristic. What was 
most remarkable about Madamoiselle Helene Montuy s 
hair was its color : it was what the French call blond cendre. 
We have no phrase for it in our language ; indeed, in this 
country it is hardly ever seen, and it is rare indeed even 
in France. Its happy possessors are invariably of a high- 
ly romantic and generally melancholy temperament ; 
not the temperament which characterizes the blonde Ger- 
man madchen — the girl who sighs and looks, and sighs 
and looks again, and then sits down and eats a supper 
which would do credit to a couple of hungry grenadiers. 
Marguerite is all very well in the picture-books, with her 
two long straw-colored tails, which somehow remind one 
of the advertisement of the infallible hairwash. It may be 
doubted whether the young woman is one bit romantic. 
She sighs, she eats more than is good for her, she takes 
insufficient exercise, and her end is bound to be fatty de- 
generation in some form or other. But one could see 
plainly enough that Mademoiselle Montuy was a roman- 
tic girl, and an affectionate one withal ; for on her lap was 
seated the pest and pet of the establishment — a dimpled 
baby of some seven years, who was examining, with a 
delighted interest, the pictures in one of the many red- 
covered prizes which had fallen to Mademoiselle Montuy’s 
share, the leaves of which the elder girl was carefully turn- 
ing for her. 

“ It all seems like a dream, Helene. Are you really to 
be married to-morrow to Dr. Tholozan — the great Dr. 
1 holozan ? And will you live in Paris ; in dear, wonder- 
ful, delightful, Paris— the Paris which I dream of, but 
which I have never seen ? Oh, how I envy you ! how 
we all envy you ! ” said a pretty gypsy-like girl at her side. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


33 


Helfene smiled. “I am two years older than you, 
child ; why I am nineteen, it’s quite a patriarchal age ; 
but your turn will come, Louise, never fear.” 

The two girls left the chattering crowd in the big school- 
room, and passed through one of the open windows into 
the prim little garden ; for on this one day in the year 
Madame Pouilly’s garden was at the disposition of the 
young ladies. 

“You ought to be very, very happy,” the younger girl 
repeated, as she passed her arm round her companion’s 
slender waist. 

“ I’m very, very grateful, Louise, to Dr. Tholozan, for, 
after all, I am but a penniless orphan. Unlike the don- 
key, dear Louise, I did not hesitate long between the 
proverbial bunches of hay. I was surprised and aston- 
ished, Louise, but I could not doubt. Of two evils always 
choose the lesser, dear. It was a choice between remain- 
ing here, probably for life, with Madame Pouilly ; to cut 
the bread and butter, to correct the exercises, to teach the 
little ones their scales all the mornings ; while my even- 
ings would have to be spent in the uncongenial occupa- 
tions of darning their dreadful stockings, and making up 
the quarterly accounts : it was that or marrying Dr. 
Tholozan. ” 

“And did he put it very nicely, Helfcne? Was he very 
lover-like ? ” 

“Ah, no, dear. He let me see very plainly that it was 
a sacrifice on his part. But he was very courteous, though 
cold, terribly cold. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘pray be 
seated, ' and he placed a chair for me as if I had been an 
empress. * You, mademoiselle, are no longer a child ; 
the time has come when you naturally would expect from 
me an explanation as to your position and your future 
prospects. Dear young lady, ’he continued, ‘my guar- 


34 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


dianship was the result of a foolish promise made to a dy- 
ing friend. I, alas, was once enthusiastic.’ He sighed 
as he said these words, and ran his fingers through his 
scanty gray hair. ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I was foolish 
enough once to be an enthusiast ; but that is a long time 
ago. As for your fortune, my child, it consisted simply 
of your father’s debts. Should you see fit you can remain 
here as Madame Pouilly’s assistant.’ I shuddered invol- 
untarily. ‘ I must admit that the prospect is not inviting,’ 
continued the doctor. ‘ Had I a wife of my own, I should 
be glad to offer you a home myself ; but at your age, 
mademoiselle, old bachelor as I am, that would be impos- 
sible ; the convenances would not permit it. But there is 
yet another proposition. Do not be startled, do not be 
horrified. I am close upon sixty ; on the wrong side of 
it, mind, not the right. I do not love you, mademoiselle.’ 
Here I blushed furiously. ‘ That is a bad habit, my child, 
which you will do well to combat. I do not love you,’ he 
repeated, he even emphasized the word ; ‘ nevertheless I 
am prepared to marry you. Don’t misunderstand me. It 
is from no feeling of duty, from no feeling of friendship to 
your dead father, but simply as a means of escape from an 
unpleasant dilemma.’ ” 

li Oh, Helbne, he could only have said it to try you ! ” 

“ Don’t interrupt me, dear. Dr. Tholozan and I are 
both matter-of-fact people, ” and her lip trembled a little as 
she said the words. “He continued, ‘My dear young 
lady, I have a fair professional income, I live in a big 
house which is my own property, and may be worth a 
hundred thousand francs, but I have saved no money. If 
you consider that it is worth your while to marry me for 
the sake of a sum of money which would bring you in the 
pittance of five thousand francs a year, at my death I will 
settle the house upon you. But you must remember that 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


35 

there are two sides to the bargain ; for bargain it is, and 
nothing more nor less. In the first place, I may live to be 
a very old man ; that in itself is a great drawback. In 
any case, I should expect my wife to entertain my friends, 
and to do me credit in the eyes of the world, never to dis- 
obey me, and never to disgrace me ; above all things, 
never to make me ridiculous.’ ‘ Dr. Tholozan ! ■ I said. 
‘Stop, mademoiselle ; do not answer me hastily. With 
your permission, I shall step into Madame Pouilly’s charm- 
ing garden, and smoke one cigarette. That will give you 
time to consider the matter, and I shall return then for my 
answer.’ My guardian rose, raised the tips of my fingers 
to his lips, and with a low bow walked into the garden, 
leaving me to my own reflections.” 

“ Helfene, it is horrible ! ” cried he’" confidante. “Your 
guardian is a bad man, a wicked man.” 

“ Don’t say so, Louise, for to-morrow Dr. Tholozan 
will be my husband, and I must try to make the best of 
my — my bargain,” she added with a little sob. But let 
me tell you the rest, and then judge me as you will, 
Louise ; but not too hardly, dear friend. I have been ten 
years in this house, for ten long years without a break ; 
and for ten long years I have longed for a home of my 
own. You and the others, dear, have gone away to your 
happy homes, to your fathers, your mothers, and your 
loving relatives. I, Louise, with the exception of Dr. 
Tholozan, haven’t a friend in the world. For the last 
three years this place has seemed to me a prison ; the 
only means of escape for me is to marry Dr. Tholozan. 
And- 1 shall marry him to-morrow ; and it will not be my 
fault if, after a time, he does not love me. He is a man 
of world-wide reputation, and it is an honor for me to be 
married to such a man. When he returned I told him so. 
He only laughed a little laugh, and then he rang the bell, 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


36 

and asked to see Madame Pouilly. When she entered the 
room he made a profound bow. ‘ Madame/ he said, ‘it 
will perhaps hardly surprise you to hear that my ward and 
I are about to become united by a yet closer tie. Ma- 
dame/ he continued, ‘ I have the honor to present to you 
the young lady who is about to become my wife. Let 
me take the present opportunity of thanking you, mad- 
ame, for the more than maternal care you have lavished 
upon her for so many years. We trust that you will ac- 
cept from us this little trifle/ he handed her a morocco 
case. ‘ We have yet two other favors to ask of you, dear 
madame : that you will grace the approaching ceremony 
with your presence, and that you will permit it to take 
place from this house. All the necessary formalities, and 
the usual notices to the civil and religious authorities I 
have attended to. As Mademoiselle Montuyhas no living 
female relatives, will you further oblige us by purchasing 
for her a suitable trousseau ? ' and he placed in her hands 
a check for five thousand francs. At all events, my 
future husband is generous. Madame burst into a flood 
of compliments. The doctor allowed her to run down. 
He evidently felt that were he to interrupt her, she would 
only recommence with renewed vigor. When Madame 
had exhausted all her phrases he looked at his watch. ‘ 1 
fear I have intruded on your valuable time/ he said, and 
then he kissed my finger tips once more, and declining 
Madame’s reiterated offers of refreshment, took his leave. 
I have not seen him since, Louise. That was three days 
ago, and we are to be married to-morrow.” 

“But he loves you, dear Helene, I’m sure he loves you. 
Those sparkling earrings and that magnificent ring speak 
for him, dear. ” 

“In a way, child; in a way, perhaps,” said the elder 
girl, meditatively. “But we must not forget that they 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


37 


used to parade their sacrifices of old adorned with flowers. 
These are my adornments, Louise, and the sacrifice is for 
to-morrow. But no, I wrong him," said the girl, as she 
drew herself up proudly ; “ it is not a sacrifice, it is but a 
bargain ; and I will try to perform loyally my part of the 
contract." As she spoke her lips trembled once more. 
“God forgive me ! ” she cried, “God forgive me ! " And 
then she flung herself into her friend's arms, and burst into 
a flood of tears. 


38 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Dr. Tholozan’s honeymoon was more than half over. 
The first portion had been spent at Folkstone ; and now 
the newly-married pair were to taste the sweets of country 
life, and the cloying joys of the dolce far niente. One 
cannot thoroughly appreciate this Neapolitan delight, unless 
one is really alone or in a solitude of two, without books, 
friends, or acquaintances, deprived of all pursuits, duties, 
and fads ; and then it must be confessed that a very little 
of it goes a long way. Theoretically, of course, particu- 
larly on a dull November day in chilly England, one is 
apt to envy the freedom from care of the Lazzaroni, his 
sun, his cigarette, and his melon. It cannot be denied 
that as one thinks of wet boots, of reeking umbrellas and 
steaming garments, and as one looks out of the window 
at the driving rain, one envies the Lazzaroni the genial 
warmth which must penetrate his very marrow. But 
warmth, however genial, is apt to develop into unpleasant 
heat A stone slab, though a picturesque object enough, 
makes a very hard bed, and even the cigarette and the 
melon have to be earned or stolen. Then at sunset, 
although the Lazzaroni hears the soothing toll of the 
vesper bell, he also hears the tiny trumpeting of the blood- 
thirsty mosquito, which warns him that for the present his 
demigod existence is over, and he must cease to be a lotos 
eater. 

Dr. and Madame Tholozan were lotos eaters with a 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


39 


vengeance at present. Theoretically they were free from 
carking care of every description. The young wife had 
no cause to dread the daily ordeal of the terrible interview 
with the cook ; for the watchful care of Madame Pouilly 
had provided the villa of the Two Grenadiers with an ar- 
tiste of surpassing excellence, a woman of fine feeling and 
fertile imagination, a lady who had the three hundred 
menus of Baron Brisse at her fingers' ends ; a conscien- 
tious woman, in fact, who, sooner than send up a bad 
meal, would commit suicide in her own oven. Neither 
the doctor nor his young wife had ever been in England 
before ; to them John Bull and his island were novelties ; 
the every-day events of life, at the English watering-place, 
had been to them a revelation. They treat you very well 
at the Royal, and indeed lavish a sort of affectionate so- 
licitude upon all newly-married couples. But now the pair 
were back in France, settled for a fortnight at the charming 
little villa in the environs of Banquerouteville, which is 
known to natives and visitors alike as the Two Grenadiers. 
Two life-size plaster figures of a couple of ferocious repre- 
sentatives of the Old Guard keep perpetual watch and ward 
over the little villa ; hence its name. The owner might 
far more appropriately have placed a pair of Cupids there ; 
the fact, that he got the grenadiers cheap was probably 
the original cause of their selection. It was the very beau 
ideal of a temporary residence for a newly-married pair. 
It stood in a little miniature garden of Eden of its own, 
and there were not one but many apple trees in it. There 
were bowers, rustic arbors, and summer-houses ; there 
was a grotto and a fountain, flowers in profusion, and, as 
everybody knows, the climate of the environs of Banque- 
routeville in summer is at once balmy and salubrious. 
Then, too, there was an abundance of fruit ; but the straw- 
berries were over, and practically the only fruits in the 


40 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


great umbrageous garden that it was possible to eat just 
now were the currants, about which there is a want of 
poetry, and the still more prosaic gooseberry. 

Dr. Tholozan and his wife had walked in the garden, 
had eaten the gooseberries, and had exhausted the various 
sights of Banquerouteville-sur-Mer They had been to the 
great forest ; they had ascended Napoleon's column ; they 
had driven to the so-called Happy Valley ; they had in- 
spected the mysterious fisher village of Portel ; they had 
visited and laughed at the great silent sleepy collection of 
rubbish known as the Museum ; and twice a day they had 
driven about along the dusty high roads, and through the 
pretty lanes. If the truth must be told, the pair were feel- 
ing just a little bit bored — not that they admitted the fact 
to themselves for a single instant. The doctor smoked a 
little more than was good for him, and rather longed for 
his patients, his club, and his quiet evenings in the big 
studio at home. It is very difficult for a man of sixty to 
invent congenial subjects of conversation for a girl of 
nineteen ; and what can the girl of nineteen have to tell 
to the man of sixty ? A younger man would have the 
ever delightful future to dilate upon ; but the future at sixty 
is rather a painful subject with most of us, and, as for the 
past, usually the less said about that the better. 

The pair were seated in a couple of lounge chairs in a 
little arbor ; great masses of vine leaves protected them 
from the fierce glare of the afternoon sun. They sat staring 
over the sunlit masses of foliage, probably for the same 
reason that the stars look down on us, because they have 
nothing else to do. Presently the doctor broke the silence. 

“Helene," he said, “I fear you must regret the loss of 
your young companions, and the life at Madame Pouilly’s. " 

“Oh no," replied the girl, with a sunny smile, “ all is 
new to me now. I have the world before me, and I am 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


41 


no longer friendless, Felix,” she added, with a little blush, 
as she affectionately laid her dimpled fingers upon the 
doctor’s cold white hand. 

Her husband gazed at her with an appreciative smile. 
It was the first time she had addressed him by his Christian 
name. 

“It was very triste indeed at Madame Pouilly’s,” the 
girl went on, “we were but machines there; and every 
hour in the week was mapped out for us with monotonous 
regularity. And one got up so early. While now it’s quite 
a whirl of novelty and excitement. I shall never forget 
our English journey, and the strange solemn people we 
saw, who talked so little and who ate so much. I shall 
never forget those two English Sundays, and how sad all 
those good people looked. But it is not so in Paris ; in 
Paris they are gay. Tell me, is it not so ? ” 

“Yes, that is our business in Paris, the sad business of 
our lives,” said the doctor, with a sort of groan. “We 
are gay enough in Paris, even the very poor. But don’t 
expect too much, Helene, my child ; you may find yet 
that there’s sadness enough in Paris to make you wish 
that you had never left your quiet home at Madame 
Pouilly’s.” 

“ Oh, but I shall have so much to do, so much to think 
of, and so much to learn. I do so long to see my new 
home,” cried the girl, with enthusiasm. 

“So did Madame Bluebeard, my child. And no doubt 
she was happy enough there at first till she got hold of the 
key of the mysterious cupboard, and her husband wanted 
to cut off her head.” 

“But he did give her the key though, after all, Felix. 
He must have been very fond of her to do that.” 

“ She probably coaxed it out of him, my child . v 


42 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


“He couldn’t have been so very bad, after all, if he 
submitted to coaxing.” 

“Well, I don’t know. No doubt her five predecessors 
had all coaxed him in their turn ; but Boulotte found them 
hanging up in the Blue Cupboard, minus their little fingers, 
nevertheless.” 

“Ah, but that was a fairy tale, and there’s no Blue 
Cupboard at home ” — the girl lingered affectionately over 
the word — “ is there, Felix ? ” 

The doctor laughed. 

“Besides,” she continued, “you’re not a bit like Blue- 
beard. ’’ 

“I’m not so sure of that. I’m a terribly jealous mon- 
ster. ” 

“ Well, if you insist on playing at Bluebeard, Felix, tell 
me all about my five unfortunate deceased rivals. ” 

“ I’m not sure that they are all dead, my child ; 
particularly number one. She was Ambition, and I believe 
I love her still.” 

“ Be true to her, Felix, and I shall respect — and love 
you all the more,” and the soft delicate tints of the girl’s 
snowy neck became flushed with rosy red. “And the 
rest ? ” 

“The next was Avarice. But when my poor brother 
died I gave her up, and she is comfortably buried long 
ago. I have forgotten the names of the other three, 
Madame Tholozan, since I had the pleasure of making 
your acquaintance,” said the doctor with a sort of old- 
fashioned courtesy that rather became him than not. 

“Oh, guardian, ” said the girl, dropping unconsciously 
into the phrase that had so lately been habitual with her, 
“if you only knew how dear a compliment is to a young 
girl ! We never hear them at school.” 

“ Dr. Tholozan ’s wife will hear plenty of them in Paris, 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


43 

and learn to estimate them at their proper value, I trust/’ 
the doctor added. 

/‘And don’t you long for home, Felix?” said the girl, 
after a meditative pause. 

“When a man is my age, my child, his daily rou- 
tine becomes a sort of necessity to him. But my out- 
ing has been a very pleasant one ; perhaps I shall not 
offend you when I say, Helene, that I have never been 
so happy as since our marriage.” The doctor looked 
twenty years younger as he said the words, and again the 
blushes rose on his companion’s tell-tale face. “I don’t 
think, Helene,” he said, “that you’ll find it so dull, per- 
haps at home as here, or at Madame Pouilly’s. You’ll 
have a companion, at all events.” 

“I have one now, Felix.” 

“Ay, but of your own age, child.” 

“Yes. Madame Pichon is quite young, is she not? 
Poor thing, how she must suffer ! ” 

“On the contrary, my child, Sophie is the gayest of 
the gay.” 

“Then I’m afraid I shan’t like her, Felix.” 

“ Nobody ever disliked Sophie. You and she will be 
sworn friends before you’ve been half an hour together. 
Everybody tells me that Sophie is charming, and every- 
body must be right.” 

“ But her recent loss, Felix ? ” 

“ She manages to bear it, my child ; everything comes 
to those who wait, even a second husband. It won’t 
surprise me in the least to hear that Sophie has consoled 
herself on my return. My artist friend seems to take up 
a great deal of her time, and Sophie herself says she would 
do anything for art ; and I daresay she would, particularly 
when art is personified by a young painter of prepossess- 
ing appearance. ” \ 


44 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


“ Then they love each other, Felix, these two ? ” 

“You must judge for yourself, my child, when you 
see them. Here is a letter I had from her this morning. 
Read it” 

Madame Tholozan took the thick sheet of scented paper 
which her husband handed her, and read as follows : 

“ Dear Cousin Felix, — We are longing for your arrival, 
— when I say we, I mean Mr. Leigh and I, — as well as 
all our acquaintances, to whom I have shown the charm- 
ing portrait of your wife, and who are all, the men espe- 
cially, dying to make her acquaintance. Of course the 
convenances do not permit of my going to your house 
now without a duenna ; though the duty of furnishing 
Madame Tholozan's boudoir has made my daily presence 
there a necessity. Monsieur Leigh has given me the ben- 
efit of his artistic suggestions \ the result is charming. I 
proposed amber satin ; but Monsieur Leigh, after a pro- 
found study of the photograph, overruled me in favor of 
pale blue and silver. Of course he was right ; so blue and 
silver it is. He has been quite enthusiastic in the matter, 
and has been good enough to accompany me to all the 
furniture shops. You ought to he very grateful to both of 
us. It’s been quite a labor of love, but terribly embarrass- 
ing ; fof the shop people persist in looking upon me as 
George's fiancee , and dreadful complications have been 
the result. George has behaved very well in the matter, 
giving up a great deal of his time. If I were a vain 
woman, I should fancy he liked shopping with me, but 
my better reason tells me he has been sacrificing himself 
for the sake of his old friend. And now I have to confess 
to an extravagance. Unknown to George, I have pur- 
chased from that hateful Monsieur Israels the picture of 
Niobe. Never in my whole life have I been so angry as 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


45 

when George coolly informed me that he had parted with 
it. Were it not for his absurd carelessness about money 
I should have felt inclined to think him mercenary. 
Moreover, he was very rude over the matter. When I 
expressed my astonishment, he said with a laugh, ‘ Niobe 
was only a pot-boiler, after all. ’ Did he dare to compare 
me to a cookmaid, or was he hinting that what the late 
Monsieur Pichon used to call ‘ my charming embonpoint ' 
was attaining a prosaic plumpness? I thought the mon- 
ster meant I was getting fat. Alas ! I know too well 
that plumpness is the fatal grave towards which blonde 
Duties of my sympathetic type invariably tend. You, 
Felix, as my cousin and honorary body physician, have 
often and often told me this, with the cruel coarseness 
habitual with the more serious members of your profes- 
sion. I tried to explain it all to George : I told him how 
for months I had followed a dreadful diet table, and had 
eaten only what was nasty ; how I had even denied my- 
self bonbons — a consolation to which young women in 
my unfortunate situation habitually fly. But he only 
laughed. However, that very afternoon I drove him 
through the Champs Elysees, and we took cream ices at 
the little chalet on the lake ; but' it was not for the cream 
ices that I visited the chalet, though they are notoriously 
the most delicious in all Paris. No, it was for a more 
prosaic purpose. I meant to be weighed, and weighed I 
was. Seventy-five kilos, Felix ; not a centigramme more ! 
I didn't say a word, but I gave him one triumphant look, 
and he seemed considerably confused ; and then he told 
me a very interesting artistic fact, for he said that seventy- 
five kilos was the exact weight of the Venus de Medici. 
But my triumph didn't end there. ‘Your Venus de 
Medici,' said I, ‘may have weighed seventy-five kilos, 
but I very much doubt if she wore nippier six gloves ; I 


46 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


always do/ I spread out my hands, and to my intense 
annoyance bang went my left-hand glove right across the 
palm. (Of course this letter is in confidence, and you 
are on no account to show it to your wife. You will, 
though, for a certainty ; for as I used frequently to tell 
poor Pichon, there is no fool like an old fool.) And now 
I must give you a word of advice. Unless you want to 
make yourself supremely ridiculous, it is perfectly impos- 
sible that George should go on living with you as he has 
done. »The presence of a young, charming, and probably 
designing girl — for all very, very fair women are design- 
ing— would surely very much interfere with his work ; 
and, as he has absolutely nothing but his profession to de- 
pend upon, it would be a very great pity indeed. Since 
I have sat for him for Sigismonda and Niobe I have often 
thought that it would be better for him, perhaps, if he mar- 
ried; for if she were really nice looking it would save him 
the absurd sums he lavishes on models. How sad it 
must be for any young man to be continually exposed to 
ihe dangerous fascinations of a succession of young per- 
sons of painfully prepossessing appearance ! When I 
suggested it to him he said he should see how the experi- 
ment worked with you, and act accordingly. Dear Felix, 
I do so hope you will be happy. But to return to what I 
was saying : Monsieur Leigh can't go on living here. 
When I pointed out the impropriety of it, he said that 
you were the best judge, that he should never find a studio 
to suit him so well as his present one ; and the way he 
pores over your wife’s photogragh is most exasperating. 
He says he is studying it ; and he had the audacity to 
wondeT whether she would sit to him. I pointed out to 
him the impossibility and the impropriety of such a thing ; 
and then he retorted with wicked ingratitude that as I, his 
old friend s cousin had -sat to him, he didn’t see why she, 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


47 


his old friend’s wife, shouldn’t. We nearly quarrelled 
over it, and if he is like this now, Felix, what will he be 
when she arrives in person ; particularly if she encourages 
him — which she is sure to do ? Come home as soon as 
you can, dear Felix. I am dying to give a sister’s welcome 
to my cousin’s wife. Pray tell the dear child that, broken 
down as I am by my recent terrible affliction, I have yet 
a corner in my heart for her. Give her the assurance of 
my loving sympathy ; and, above all things, ask her 
whether she would like the finger-plates of the boudoir 
door to be of pale blue porcelain or frosted silver. George 
and I have had words on this matter ; but I would scorn, 
by even a hint, to influence dear Helene’s decision on so 
important a point. It would be mean ; it would be dis- 
honorable. Come home as soon as you can, Felix. 
You must both be tired of le parfait amour by this time, 
and I am longing to return to the happy evenings we 
used to spend together in the great studio. Farewell. 
Remember, not a word to George about the Niobe. 

“Ever your own affectionate but heart-broken cousin, 

“ Sophie. 

“P.S. — During your absence I am sorry to say that 
George has spent most of his evenings at the Mirlitons. 
Hurry back, if only to save the poor young fellow from 
the contamination of that disgraceful set.” 

The husband and wife looked at each other. The doc- 
tor smiled, and Madame Tholozan burst into a peal of 
silvery laughter. 

“Madame Pi chon,” she said, “seems very anxious 
about the finger-plates, and tells us a good deal about 
your friend. Is there a tendresse P” 

“ My child, my cousin is a woman of very large affec- 
tions. They might both do worse, I think. She is 


48 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


enthusiastic and wealthy, and he is a dreamer of dreams, 
but a clever dreamer, notwithstanding. You will like 
them both, I think. ” 

The doctor closed his eyes. Whether it was the effect 
of his cousin's letter or the heat of the weather, who can 
tell ? but he asserted his husband's privilege, and slid 
gently but rapidly into the land of dreams. 

Helfene did not sleep, she too dreamed ; but hers were 
day-dreams — the bright sunny day-dreams of the inex- 
perienced girl. She looked forward with pleasant antici- 
pation to the society of this pair of lovers, who were evi- 
dently playing at cross purposes ; to the unknown de- 
lights of the joyous world before her, which was so soon 
to open its golden glories in the great city of pleasure ; 
and as she smiled she gazed meditatively at the little 
golden circlet on her finger, and idly turned it round and 
round. And then she felt a world of pity for her husband’s 
disconsolate cousin — the heart-broken Sophie ; and then 
she smiled as she thought of the widow’s evident jealousy 
as to her own portrait. She wondered at the novel 
theory that all very fair women were designing, and she 
promised herself a little innocent revenge in the mildest 
possible flirtation with the gentleman who had such an 
accurate knowledge of the weight of the Venus de Medici. 
But as she looked at her sleeping husband she cast aside 
the idea as base and ignoble. And then she began to 
ponder about the important subject of the finger-plates. 
And then the ivory eyelids closed, and the radiant orbs 
were hidden by the heavy lashes. The bees went on 
humming, the sleepy murmur of the bubbling fountain, 
and the cooing of the doves were the only sounds that 
broke the silence in the little garden of the villa of the Two 
Grenadiers. Some fairy visions seemed to be flitting 
through the mind of the sleeping girl. It could not have 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


49 

been the gruesome story of Beauty and the Beast ; per- 
haps it was the /eerie of Prince Charming. Who can tell ? 
They were happy visions, for the girl smiled as she 
dreamt them ; and as her husband woke with a start, and 
rubbed his eyes, he gazed in astonished admiration at the 
improvised tableau of the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood he 
saw before him. 

“Ah,” thought he, “I can admire it all, but I can’t ap- 
preciate her as she deserves. If my young friend were 
only here where could he find a more delightful subject 
for a picture ? ” 

And so the time sped idly by. One day was very 
much like another at the villa of the Two Grenadiers. 

“It has been very pleasant while it lasted,” said the 
doctor to himself, as he finished packing his portmanteau, 
and turned the key with a click. “ I have been living in 
a fool’s paradise, I suppose, for the last month. I won- 
der whether Helene repents the bargain yet, poor child ! ” 

But there was nothing sorrowful about the girl as she 
entered the room, looking fresh as a rose in her pretty 
figured muslin and her big straw hat with a single great 
white ostrich feather. 

“Button my gloves for me, Felix,” she said, coquet- 
tishly ; “and pity me, my dear husband, pity me from 
the bottom of your heart,” she added with a merry laugh, 
“and help me to break it to Madame Pichon when we ar- 
rive ; for they are number seven, Felix, and horribly 
tight” 


50 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


CHAPTER V. 

MADAME THOLOZAN’s DIARY. 
***** 

“ It would be perfectly hopeless to attempt to fill up the 
blank which occupies the last month, and which has prob- 
ably been the most eventful period of my life. Occurrences 
have followed each other so rapidly that I have become be- 
wildered. I'm not quite sure whether I ought to keep a diary 
at all ; it is so terribly compromising, as Sophie puts it. 
It was all very well for Heelne Montuy, Dr. Tholozan’s 
penniless pensioner : now it is a different matter. And 
yet after all it’s a great relief to be able to write down what 
one thinks just as one thinks it. One can be so terribly 
frank, and one hurts nobody's feelings. 

“ How glad I am that I followed my first impulse, and 
accepted Dr. Tholozan’s proposition. He hasn't had the 
heart once since our marriage to allude to what he called, 
at the time of his formal proposal, ‘our bargain.’ I 
verily believe that Felix is in love with me. Otherwise, 
why should he have been so terribly extravagant about 
this little nest of mine ? For people in our position such 
recklessness is almost wicked. My husband told me that 
he had nothing but his income and this house, therefore 
this pretty boudoir of mine is apiece of extravagance, and 
consequently a proof of affection. Only this morning 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


5 * 


Madame Pichon said to me, ‘ If a man love us, my dear, 
he is ready to ruin himself for us/ Bankruptcy meaning 
love, extravagance must indicate affection : this was 
Sophie’s argument, and she declares that Felix adores 
me. Madame Pouilly’s last words I shall never forget : 
"Be careful of him, Helfcne,' she said; ‘make yourself 
indispensable to him ; and remember that when good 
looks are gone, my child, affection may still remain. 
Look at these old slippers of mine, my dear ; they are old, 
but I love them, they are so delightfully comfortable/ 
And are my husband and I never to be more to each other 
than Madame Pouilly’s old slippers are to her? 

“I rather tremble at the ordeal I have to go through. 
Next Thursday we shall be formally At Home, and I shall 
make the acquaintance of all the good people whose cards 
are lying here in a great heap before me. Sophie tells me 
that the men are all impossible, and the women monu- 
ments of antiquity. ‘As to the men, my dear/ says my 
new friend, ‘ they are nearly all bald ; baldness, science, 
and snuff-taking go together. But old as they are, and 
ugly as they are — and though they do stand in corners, 
and whisper to each other about all the ologies — yet I de- 
clare they all make love to me. Susanna and the Elders, 
my dear; history repeats itself/ Madame Pichon is al- 
ways profane and respects nobody, not even my hus- 
band. 

“I do hope I shan’t make Felix ashamed of me ; and I 
am so glad that Sophie is staying with us for the first 
month.” 

Madame Tholozan laid down her pen, replaced her 
diary in the escritoire, and leant back in her chair ; and 
then she gave a long look of satisfaction at her pretty sur- 
roundings. Pale blue and silver were the ruling idea ; and 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


52 

young Mr. Leigh had been right, when he had chosen the 
combination as the most suitable frame to set off the 
dreamy blonde beauty of the young wife. Considerable 
care had evidently been expended in the matter. One thing 
was quite certain — expense had been disregarded. There 
was a profusion of trifles ; but every little object seemed 
a work of art. The little white cottage piano was an 
Erard. The four little water-color sketches which Madame 
Pichon had pronounced “ delicious trifles," would have 
made the mouth of Monsieur Israels himself water. Even 
the great white Persian cat, who sprawled in sleepy en- 
joyment upon the fur hearth-rug of white lamb skins, 
was a masterpiece in his way ; a thoroughbred animal 
with one blue eye and one yellow one, having also the 
valuable defect of being as deaf as a post Although the 
furniture was of the latest fashion, it was all thoroughly 
comfortable ; for Madame Pichon herself had sat in all 
the chairs, and reclined on the various settees and otto- 
mans. 

“ A chair, Monsieur George," she had remarked, “ is a 
thing to sit upon, and not a stool of repentance. The late 
Monsieur Pichon placed himself unreservedly in the hands 
of his upholsterer, and gave him carte blanche. The re- 
sult is gilded misery. It’s my belief," she added, 
solemnly, “ that men would be seen much more in their 
own wives’ drawing-rooms if they only had something nice 
to sit upon/' 

Madame Pichon had her way ; and one had only to sit 
down in any of the seats in Madame Tholozan’s boudoir 
to feel instantly that life was worth living. 

Madame Tholozan sat herself down before the little 
open piano, and ran her fingers along the keys. “How 
different," she thought, “from the terrible instruments at 
Madame Pouilly's which always jangled, and were 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


53 

never in tune. ” A really good piano was a revelation to 
the girl ; she preluded vaguely, and at length broke into 
the triumphal march in Judas Maccabaeus ; then she rat- 
tled through the overture to the Black Domino ; then she 
played a succession of sentimental ballads ; and then very 
slowly, very solemnly, and very carefully, she played 
Lefebure Wely’s Ave Maria , and then she burst into 
tears. 

The door opened, and Madame Pichon entered the room. 

“ What, crying, Helene, already ? Has Felix been 
grumbling because there's no pepper in the cream tarts, or 
have you a silent sorrow there ? ” and she placed her 
chubby little hand upon the region of her heart “ Don’t 
let concealment, like the worm in the bud, feed on your 
damask cheek. What is it, Helfcne ? Have you, too, a 
romance ? Confide in me, my dear child. I am discre- 
tion itself.” 

But Madame Tholozan, who had risen to her feet, was 
already laughing through her tears. “There is nothing 
to confide, dear Sophie,” she said. “They were but tears 
of joy. I was only thinking how good Felix has been to 
me.” 

“Ah, little prude. You have no sentiment, no passion ; 
you do not know what it is to have wildly loved, and to 
have had all your fond illusions destroyed at a single 
blow. I have got used to it. Why, I once filled an en- 
tire album with the most charming, the most delicious of 
operatic celebrities ; it was my first luxury after I married 
Monsieur Pichon. How well I remember the frontis- 
piece. I worshipped it with the sentimental affection of 
a young girl ; it was M. Frontin as Don Giovanni. On 
the very first opportunity I made my husband take me to 
see the Opera ; the photograph didn’t even do him justice ; 
but, oh, what a terrible awakening, Helene ! Only three 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


54 

evenings afterward my husband, with an amused smile, 
formally introduced a gentleman to me at a soiree at our 
banker’s house. * Madame/ he said, with a bow, ‘ allow 
me to present to you my distinguished acquaintance, 
Monsieur Frontin.’ He was of unmistakable Hebrew 
origin, my dear, and as bald as an egg. I thought I 
should have fainted. We all have our disillusions, my 
dear. ” 

Madame Tholozan laughed. 

“And how do you like l ami de la maison, our young 
artist ? ” continued the widow. 

‘ ‘ Oh, he’s very nice, of course ; a little silent, perhaps. ” 

“Oh, naturally he would be bashful with you at first. 
I don’t think he’s really timid, though ; it’s merely a way 
he has. These English are torpid, you know ; and very 
young men are always uncomfortable and ill at ease with 
married women. I’m very fond of him,” said the widow, 
with a sigh, “we are quite like brother and sister.” 

“I saw that at once,” said the doctor’s wife. 

“Felix has been talking nonsense to you, I suppose, 
my dear. I don’t mind telling you in confidence that I 
do feel an interest in the young fellow’s future. At all 
events,” said the widow, in a solemn voice, “his hair is his 
own. There’s a great charm about an artist, Helene. 
They are so delightfully wicked ; but the worst of Mon- 
sieur Leigh is that he has absolutely no romance. You’ve 
heard about the Niobe, Helene ? For a whole fortnight I 
sat to that young man, and though he didn’t say very 
much, he looked unutterable things. A man can say a 
great deal by his looks, my dear. Now in your case it is 
very possible that George’s looks tell nothing, or next to 
nothing ; to me they say a great deal. Tell-tale eyes, my 
dear, that speak a mysterious language, which I have 
learnt thoroughly to understand. They seem to say to 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


55 


me, ‘ Madame Pichon ’ — for he is too discreet to even 
think of me by my baptismal name, at all events as yet. 
They are terribly cold, these islanders — ‘ Madame Pichon, 
I love you with a respectful, but at the same time fervent 
admiration/ Yes, George has the greatest respect for the 
convenances . ” 

“Then why don’t you encourage him, Sophie?” 

“ That would be fatal, my dear. To a man of his sen- 
sitive nature, the mere idea that I was what is vulgarly 
called ‘ setting my cap at him ’ would be sufficient to 
destroy my fondest hopes. He is terribly timid ; his 
fingers used to tremble when he was settling the pose of 
my hands. That spoke for itself, of course. But we shall 
have plenty of time to talk about George. This afternoon, 
my dear, I want to carry you off ; there need be no cere- 
mony between us two, my child, so I sha’n’t wait for a 
formal visit from you ; but if you like we’ll go for a drive, 
rest ourselves at my house, and be back here in time for 
dinner.” 

The proposition pleased Madame Tholozan, and the 
two ladies were soon seated in the widow’s sumptuous 
britzska, and rolling noiselessly along in the direction of 
the Bois de Boulogne. There is a great difference between 
driving in London and driving in Paris ; in the one you 
rattle, in the other you roll. As a rule, the sudden 
changes from smooth to rough in the London streets 
while driving are a great drawback to conversation ; but 
nothing interrupted the flow of the ladies’ chatter, as 
Madame Pichon’s luxurious turnout rolled on its rubber 
tyres over the smooth asphalt. It was all new to Helene. 
Though Paris was comparatively empty, and hired car- 
riages greatly predominated in the Bois, yet she had 
never seen so many people, all well dressed, and all evi- 
dently upon pleasure bent. Madame Pichon’s circle of 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


56 

acquaintance was a very large one. The pretty widow 
bowed and smiled in every direction ; she pointed out the 
celebrities, and she had a little bit of scandal to impart 
about almost everybody. Somehow or other Madame 
Pichon found that she was attracting more attention than 
usual ; she put it down to her having left off her mourn- 
ing rather prematurely ; but the real fact was that in Paris, 
as in London, two very pretty women driving together 
will always be the cynosure of every eye. Madame 
Pichon, her two big gray horses, her venerable coachman 
who looked like an archbishop, and the well-known pair 
of Corsican brothers — the two monumental footmen who 
were so very much alike that you could not tell one from 
the other — were an ordinary sight enough in the Bois. 
But it was the new face that attracted attention ; and 
the only person in the Bois who was able to give any 
information as to the owner of the charming face was 
young Mr. Leigh. 

Young Leigh, in his quiet tweed suit, was sitting with 
two other men upon hired chairs in the walk which 
bounds the great drive. As the carriage passed Leigh 
raised his hat, both ladies bowed to him, and then he 
blushed. Yes : he actually blushed. 

“ Sapris/i, my friend, is it then arranged with Niobe, 
that you look so terribly conscious, and she already as- 
sumes an air of proprietorship ? ” 

“Tell me,” burst in his second companion, “you who 
are about to console the widow of King Mausolus, who is 
the very charming person by her side ; a charming 
woman, though in a different style ? By the way she 
smiles, and her appearance of thorough enjoyment, she 
should be a provincial, or a foreigner. Is she one of your 
compatriots, my dear Leigh ? ” 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


57 

“The lady is the newly married wife of my friend, Dr. 
Tholozan." 

“Ah, then, this is the girl he so suddenly married with- 
out sounding drum or trumpet ! My friend, speaking as a 
dramatist, I see the germs of a Palais Royal comedy, or 
of a melodrama, or even a tragedy/' 

Young Leigh laughed a happy careless laugh. 

“ Duvivier," he said, “Madame Pichon would doubt- 
less protect me, and I don’t think the doctor the sort of 
man to figure even in a Palais Royal farce." 

“The doctor is a bold man. Where did he disinter 
this charming bride ? Of course it was a love match ; 
mutual infatuation, no doubt ? ” 

There was a little flush of anger on Leigh’s face as he 
answered sharply, “ I don’t suppose the doctor is the first 
man past middle age who has married a young and 
pretty wife." 

“Beautiful, my young friend; beautiful," interposed 
the young man he had addressed as Duvivier. 

“ Beautiful, if you will. I pass the word. Yes, I sup- 
pose she is beautiful,” he continued, dreamily ; “ no one 
can deny it. And why shouldn’t our friend the doctor 
have a right to happiness after a long life of hard work ? " 

“And the lady, my philosophical friend, has she, too, 
no right to happiness ? But I fear her chances are prob- 
lematical ; though of course as an old man’s darling it is 
possible. Some women are unambitious. But you, 
Leigh, are doubtless so occupied with reproducing the 
charms of La Pichon, and then disposing of them for un- 
told gold, as to have little sympathy to waste on the fair 
odalisque of this aged pacha." 

“Let us change the subject. It is distasteful to me; " 
and Leigh rose impatiently. 


58 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


His friends took the hint ; but they smiled and shook 
their heads in a silent chorus. 

“You recognized George, of course, my dear, as we 
passed him ? ” said Madame Pichon to her companion. 

“ Now if George had been a Frenchman he would have 
bowed to me with effusion. Dear fellow, he was afraid 
of compromising me. Why, when I was engaged to 
poor Monsieur Pichon, he used to kiss his finger tips to 
me wherever we met. Ah, the dear man was very proud 
of his proprietorship ; but George is discretion itself. You 
can turn and drive home, ” said Madame Pichon to her 
coachman. Again they passed the three young men, and 
the smile that Madame Pichon vouchsafed to young Leigh 
was certainly not too discreet. 

They soon reached the widows house. A semi-circular 
drive, through an elaborately ornamental garden, brought 
them to the rather florid glass-and-iron structure which 
protected the entrance of Madam Pichon’s charming house. 
The two ladies proceeded at once to the drawing-room. 
The first thing that struck Madam Tholozan’s eye, 
amidst the nondescript crowd of valuable but ill-chosen 
trifles which filled the room, was a plush easel which sup- 
ported the picture of Niobe, Madam Pichon’s latest ex- 
travagance. 

“Is it like me, dear?” asked Dr. Tholozan’s cousin, 
“ or do you think he has flattered me too much ? ” 

“ Sophie, it is charming,” said the young wife. 

“ I’m so glad you like it,” said the widow. “The fact 
is, my dear, it’s a little surprise I am preparing for George. 
You are all to dine here en famille the day after to-mor- 
row ; and to-morrow my portrait, as the mistress of this 
house, will replace poor dear Pichon’s in the dining-room. 
Pichon was a benefactor to the human race ; he was the 
founder, my dear, of Pichonville, where the great choco- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


59 


late manufactory is, you know. I have felt it a duty to 
present his portrait to the mairie of the town. They take 
it away to-morrow. George, my dear, is a man of feel- 
ing though I know he will hardly take his eyes off me 
during dinner-time, yet I feel that my late husband’s por- 
trait might bring painful reminiscences to his mind, and 
damp the pleasure of my entertainment It is right to 
sacrifice oneself a little for others, dear Helene, is it not? ” 
she added, with a little sigh ; and there could be no more 
appropriate place for my husband’s picture than at Pichon- 
ville. Everybody laughs at me, Helene, you know, as 
they used to laugh at Monsieur Pichon, on account of the 
chocolate. I used to be called la belle chocolatiere. 
Vulgar people call me so still ; but I shall never despise 
chocolate, for if it hadn’t been for chocolate Monsieur 
Pichon wouldn’t have been so rich — I shouldn’t have mar- 
ried him ; and without chocolate, the house that Jack built 
couldn’t have existed. I couldn’t have bought the Niobe, 
and everything would have been different. Ah, Helene, 
Providence often works its ends in a strange and myste- 
rious manner ! No, I hope I am loyal to poor Pichon’s 
memory. I never, never will despise chocolate. Once a 
day, my dear, I subject myself to a little penance. I let 
all my people see that there is no false pride about me. 
I partake of a cup of that nutritious beverage which my 
poor husband spent a long time in perfecting. As I said 
before, he was a benefactor of the human race, Helene.” 

At that moment a footman entered with two cups of 
steaming fluid. 

“Ah,” continued the widow, in a solemn whisper, “he 
was a great man, poor Pichon ; let us drink to his mem- 
ory in silence, dear Helene, in the beverage he loved so 
well. You like it, Helene ? ” 

“ It’s delicious, Sophie,” assented Madame Tholozan. 


6o 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


“Yes; it 'cheers, but it does not inebriate. Poor 
Pichon died of it ; it was a necessity of his existence. 
He sank, poor fellow, from the too rapid assimilation of 
the most nutritious of beverages ; he died a martyr to his 
faith in his own panacea. Ah, poor Adolphe, perhaps 
even now he may be hovering around me in the spirit ; 
he who was once my protector in this world may have 
become my guardian angel in the next now he has left 
me. Disembodied spirits are terrible things, my dear. ” 

“ Has he given you any indication of his presence then, 
dear ? ” 

“Oh, I used often to see him in my dreams, Helene ; 
but that was probably merely an effect of my imagina- 
tion. And once I went to a Spiritualist’s Seance ; and the 
medium, a dreadful American woman, declared that poor 
Pichon’s spirit was present. She interrogated him, and 
the spirit was extremly rude and irritable. He upset the 
furniture, and when the medium asked him about my 
future, and whether I should marry a second time, he de- 
clined to answer. We heard a rustling of wings, and the 
medium said he had departed in indignation. The cer- 
tainty that he had wings was a great consolation to me, 
Helene. ” 

And then the ladies talked chiffons ; and they inspected 
the fernery, and the aviary, and the orangery ; and the widow 
took a tender farewell of poor Adolphe’s portrait in the din- 
ing-room, and then directed that he should be taken down 
at once, and very carefully packed, so as to be ready for the 
carrier in the morning. And then, after Helene had consoled 
her friend, and caused her suddenly to dry her tears on the 
ground that it was within an hour of dinner-time, they 
drove back to the great house with the big porte-cochere , 
the new home which called Helene its mistress. 


THE FATAL FHRYNE . 


6 1 


CHAPTER VI. 

To say that George Leigh was ambitious is a mere truism, 
he being a successful artist. He was hard at work upon a 
canvas of considerable size. It was his protest, his deter- 
mined protest, against the theories and practice of his 
numerous rivals of the Realistic school. Ever since the 
Niobe had been finished young Leigh had devoted himself, 
when not engaged in shopping with the late Monsieur 
Pichon's handsome widow, to the ambitious picture which 
he had in hand. The subject was a hackneyed one ; the 
scene was laid in Athens ; the time chosen was the high 
noon of a glorious summer day ; in the distance were the 
blue waters of the Piraeus, and one saw the Grecian galleys 
with their purple sails skimming the sapphire waters of the 
sunlit sea. Upon a double hemi-cycle of glittering white 
marble sat the judges ; no mere crowd of models careless- 
ly daubed in, but a double rank of intellectual faces — the 
faces of the successful, the wise, the learned, and the 
philosophical. Each one of the judges had his character- 
istic trait ; some were almost beautiful in their benevolent 
old age, each one had evidently been carefully thought 
out ; many of the heads were palpable portraits ; it was 
easy enough to note the leonine head of Dr. Tholozan, 
arrayed in the robes affected by the Cynic philosophers ; 
the fiery eyes shaded by the shaggy gray eyebrows, the 
wrinkled brown, the massive chin, and the thin lips and 
cruel teeth of the doctor, and the long sparse locks of 
whitening hair could not be mistaken. By his side sat a 


62 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


well-known dramatic critic, whose vast intellectuality 
blazed forth from the heavy features, the very beau ideal 
of the sated Epicurean ; but the face was the face of 
Francisque Sarcey, the dramatic critic ; the man whose 
words decided success or failure upon the Parisian stage ; 
the writer who has made the fortune of more than one 
famous actress. Easily to be recognized was the re- 
publican Rochefort, whose intellectual features seemed to 
boil over with the concentrated venom of his soul. But 
for some of the heads the artist had gone far enough afield : 
the Emperor Justinian, from a bust in the Louvre, looked 
like Rhadamanthus himself ; while from a dainty little 
sketch of a Venetian senator by Mantegna, from the same 
source, which he held in his left hand, the painter was 
transferring the portrait of one who had been a member 
of the terrible Council of Three to this more ancient and 
classic bench of judges. 

The eyes of all the judges were focussed upon one 
point ; that is, of all save one, who protected his with his 
hand, as if to guard them from the sun’s brightness ; or 
more probably to protect his prudent soul from the violent 
appeal which was being made to his passions. The open- 
air court was thronged with a miscellaneous crowd of 
aristocrats, traders, handicraftsmen, and soldiery ; among 
them could be distinguished the tall form of the painter 
Apelles, the man for whom the accused had bathed in the 
blue Piraean waves, that he might paint her as Venus rising 
from the sea. There were but two female figures besides 
Phryne herself present at this public triumph of matter 
over mind. One was represented as a young and beauti- 
ful matron of the upper class, frowning, and plucking at the 
little coral hand which was suspended from her neck, — 
the little coral hand with one finger extended, which from 
time immemorial has been used along the Mediterranean 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


63 

littoral as a charm against the evil eye. The only other 
woman depicted was a hideous negress arrayed in bright 
silken garments — an attendant upon Phyrne herself — who, 
by her almost repulsive ugliness, acted as a foil to the 
beauty of her mistress. She, with a diabolical leer on her 
misshapen features, was engaged in removing the thin trans- 
parent Coan robe of purple dye from the marble pave- 
ment upon which it had been cast by the triumphant and 
imperious beauty. Every eye was fixed upon the beauti- 
ful but shameless woman, who had publicly declared that 
she needed no other advocate than her own peerless 
charms ; and every face, with the exceptions mentioned 
had evidently fallen under the fatal influence of her more 
than human beauty. 

Such was the picture. 

Young Leigh tossed the little drawing he held in his 
hand aside, and smiled as he put the finishing touch to 
the last of the judges. “And now let me return to the 
impossible/' he thought to himself. “ With the figure I 
am more than satisfied. I don't belong to the sensuous 
school ; why should I try to rival Courbet, or attempt to 
work upon the passions of the crowd ? The figure is but 
a Venus, after all ; hers are the limbs of a goddess, but 
she is the Goddess of Love — but the face doesn't satisfy 
me ; and yet it is a handsome face, the face of a Phryne, a 
modern nineteenth-century Phryne, and it appeals but to 
the passions, and not to the soul. Why should a man be 
his own severest critic, I wonder? I suppose it’s con- 
science, after all. And this is the tenth fair, false face 
that I have patiently labored at on this unlucky canvas ; 
and I find myself further off than ever from the woman of 
my dreams, from the woman whose burning glance 
should enthral and subjugate an assembly of sages and 
philosophers such as I have striven to depict here. I need 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


64 

a poetic face. I've tried to idealize this one ; I’ve tried to 
improve upon nature, and to turn my clay into porcelain ; 
the result is failure. I’ve striven for Beauty, and I've at- 
tained Bathos." And then he put down his palette, and 
lighted a cigarette. “Why should this thing baffle me ? ” 
he went on to himself, “I, who have always prided my- 
self on the rapidity of my work. Ah, when I made my 
Spanish tour, how well I remember how the other men 
used to stare at my great copies of Murillo painted in 
three days ; and now I've been three months on the 
figures and background, and certainly a month more on 
the Phryne herself. Why, I began it when my old friend 
brought his young wife home, and as soon as I had done 
with Niobe. Poor Niobe, she’s been awfully good to me ; 
she would have made a splendid patroness, but fortu- 
nately for me I sell ; and sell a great deal better than I 
deserve, for the matter of that,” thought the young fellow 
humbly. “If I were a snob, I should think, perhaps, 
that Madame Niobe was in love with me ; not being 
a mangeur des coeurs, it seems to me perfectly natural 
that she should spend much of her time with her cousin's 
wife, here in this great studio. What should I do, wretch 
that I am, without their cheerful voices, their harmless 
prattle, and the inspiring sound of her music? Ah, her 
music is always well chosen. It’s so spontaneous, it 
seems to come straight from the heart ; I know it goes 
straight home to mine. I wonder why she married the 
doctor — sixty-one and nineteen? But, as my old friend 
says, ‘the disparity will lessen year by year.’ Poor 
thing, how beautiful she is! how different from that 1 ” 
and he turned to the principal figure of the picture with a 
weary look. Then he rose, and stared at it critically. 

“Go, wretch!" he said; and this time his thoughts 
found vent in audible speech. “Go, wretch! I banish 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


65 

you from my memory forever/' and seizing a cloth he 
wiped out, with an indignant hand, the face of the beauti- 
ful Phryne. Then he gave a sigh. “Another weeks 
hard work gone in the hopeless search after an impossible 
ideal. Well might Duvivier suggest that I might turn my 
headless figure into a man, clasp a bearded head under 
his arm, alter my period and costumes, and entitle it £ St. 
Denis’ the patron saint of Paris, astonishing the Parisians 
of the Middle Ages. My hand must be losing its cun- 
ning. Still it is better to do one’s duty ; and this is the 
tenth impossible ogress I have turned out within the last 
month.” 

At this moment a discreet tap was heard at the door. 
“Come in,” said the painter, and Mr. Israels, the dealer, 
entered the great studio. 

“Hail, disinterested patron of the Arts!” cried the 
young man. 

The Jew nodded, and walked straight up to the big 
canvas. 

“ I’m very glad you’ve done it,” said he, with a chuckle ; 
“I’m uncommmonly glad. But I’m very sorry I got 
here so late, for I can’t see the picture. Let’s have a little 
light upon the subject. This is the tenth time you’ve had 
that head out.” 

The artist stepped to a cupboard, reappeared with 
a long pole to which was attached a taper, and then he 
lighted a big brass chandelier which hung high above 
and in front of the canvas ; behind it was a reflector, which 
suddenly threw a vast flood of light upon the picture. 

The effect was almost magical. 

“It's uncommon good,” said the dealer. “That was a 
brilliant idea of yours, young gentleman, to use up the 
principal critics as your judges ; they won’t dare to speak 
ill of it lest they should be suspected of personal pique. 


66 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


And you’ve got the doctor in, too, I see. Serve him 
right ! I say, though, hang it, you know, you might 
have been a little more gentle with me,” said Mr. Israels, 
as he recognized his own unmistakable likeness in a Jew 
pedler among the crowd in the background, who was 
being roughly pushed back by a soldier with the butt of 
his spear. “Well, I suppose you will have your joke ; 
what do you want for the thing ? ” 

“Well, the fact is, Monsieur Israels, I wasn’t thinking 
of selling the picture. ” 

“Oh, I know,” said the dealer; “ you look upon it 
as a masterpiece, of course — probably be bought by the 
nation ; some great duke taken a fancy to it — I know 
all about it ; all the good men tell me these things. ” 

“I’m not fencing with you, Israels; I mean it for the 
Salon, and I shall stand or fall by the public verdict. 
The thing is a protest ” 

“I know, I know,” said the dealer. “Call it a pro- 
test, or an exposition, or a theory, or whatever you like. 

I don’t mind confessing to you that it’s a dev’lish fine 
picture all the same. Right knee a little out of drawing, 
though. What d’you really want for it ? ” 

“I’ll tell you that, Israels, after the Salon.” 

“My dear boy, you know as well as I do that after the 
Salon the thing will be worth just six times as much 
as it is now, or else it will just be worth nothing at all. 
Now I ask you, as a man of business, did you ever know 
me to buy a picture after the Salon ? I may be an igno- 
rant man, Monsieur Leigh, but I know my business, 
and I’m not exactly a fool. Besides,” said the dealer, 
with a grin, ‘“I shall spend a pile of money on a prelimi- 
nary ‘blow’ and that’ll be worth a good deal to you, you 
know. Hang it all, why I’d contract to exhibit it in a 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 67 

gallery by itself for at least six months. Now what do 
you want for it ? ” 

“ I’m afraid we can't deal, Israels." 

“Surely you don’t want me to offer a price? You 
don’t want me to buy and sell too ? " said the dealer, 
with some indignation ; “it ain’t business-like, Mr. Leigh ; 
it really ain’t. In a dealer, you know, I should call such 
conduct downright mean." 

The artist stretched out his hand to the gas-lever to turn 
down the light. 

“ Not yet," said the dealer, excitedly, “ not yet.’’ 

He drew a check-book from his breast pocket. 

“ If you don’t mind, Monsieur Leigh,’’ he continued, 
“I think I’ll sit down; and I’ll tell you what I’ll do," 
he said, with a deep sigh. “ It’s a very speculative 
and dangerous work, this Phryne of yours, Monsieur 
Leigh ; but I’ll give you twenty-five thousand francs for 
it, on one condition ; and then I’ll buy it out and out of 
you with all the rights, mind, and I won’t even ask you to 
paint me out. Come now, Monsieur Leigh," he added, per- 
suasively, “it’s a big picture, but it’s a big price. And 
I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll even pay for the frame; 
that’ll save you a thousand francs, and you shall choose 
it yourself.” 

But the artist only shook his head. 

“ You don’t ask what the condition is," said the dealer. 

“I don’t want to know it,” said Leigh, “we sha’n’t 
come to terms." 

“ I don’t mind springing another thousand," continued 
the dealer, “if it’s only to see the critics ‘ squirm,' when 
they see themselves in all their native ugliness, ‘ all of 
a row' at the private view." 

“We’ll talk about it after the Salon, Israels," said Leigh. 

“ Not a bit of it; my young friend ; not a bit of it. Let 


68 


THE FATAL PHRYHE. 


me tell you the condition, anyhow ; its bound to make 
the picture a success, and it’ll send your old things up 50 
per cent. Why, Madame Pichon’s Niobe will be act- 
ually worth the money I sold it to her for, even in the 
Rue Druot. Only to think of that,” said the dealer, 
as he raised his hands. “ Now listen to me,” he con- 
tinued. “ There’s nothing like telling a man the truth 
at once. The fact is, that it’s a fine picture ; but I don’t 
know,” said Monsieur Israels, meditatively, “that I 
should care to spend twenty-six thousand francs on 
Mademoiselle Phryne ; even though succeeding genera- 
tions should laugh at the ridiculous caricature you’ve 
made of me in the galleries of the Louvre itself. You know 
the Due de Lille ? ” 

The painter nodded. 

“You may have noticed, possibly, in the Bois, a very 
smart little Victoria, drawn by a pair of cream-colored 
Norwegian ponies ; who clatter along at a tremendous 
rate, and whose approach is always heralded by the con- 
tinuous jingle of their numerous sleigh-bells. ” 

Again the painter nodded. 

“You will allow that the lady who holds the reins is a 
clever whip ? ” 

“Oh, I allow it,” said Leigh, “of course she is ; it’s 
her business. Why, it’s Amenaide of the Hippodrome.” 

“Quite so,” replied the dealer. “She’s uncommonly 
good-lookiftg, isn’t she ? ” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Leigh, wearily, “ in her way, 
in her way. ” 

“Yes, she is good-looking,” said Israels, “and she’s 
very nearly the fashion. She wants to sit to you. ” 

“Let her sit; you know my price. What does she 
want? A half-length, I suppose.” 

“ Not a bit of it ; Mademoiselle Amenaide is ambitious ; 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


69 

she intends that her portrait shall be the sensation of the 
year ; that it shall be hung in the very best place of all — 
the place of honor in the coming Salon. ’’ 

“Then I should think she will probably be disap- 
pointed, unless she could bribe the hanging committee — • 
which would be difficult. ” 

“You’re unusually dense this afternoon, my young 
friend. Can’t you see it all ? The Due de Lille paid for 
the ponies ; there is no single whim of hers that he’s not 
anxious to gratify. Now do you see why I offer you 
twenty-six thousand francs for that very dangerous, spite- 
ful, and speculative picture of yours ! ” 

“Oh, the usual reason, I suppose, Israels ? ” 

“Mother of Moses," said the Hebrew, “he actually 
thinks, this good young man actually believes, that modern 
historical picture can possibly be worth twenty-six thou- 
sand francs to a dealer ! Be calm, good young man, and 
don’t be angry with me if I dispel your innocent illusion. 
The picture is finished, isn’t it, all but the head ? Very 
well, then, all you have to do is to paint in the face of 
Mademoiselle Amenaide ; and I’ll write you a check 
now, this very instant, for twenty-six thousand francs. " 

The artist put out his hand to the gas-lever, and the 
studio was suddenly plunged into comparative darkness. 
“Good-night, Israels,” he said, quietly, “ good-night. 
You adjured me to be calm. I trust I am so. You prob- 
ably are not aware of the enormity of your offence. You 
have proposed to me that I should paint a colored 
advertisement of Mademoiselle Amenaide of the Hip- 
podrome ; you’ve put it purely as a matter of business. 
Well, as a matter of business, I must decline the offer. 
You’ve paid me a good many checks, Israels, and you’ve 
always treated me very fairly. I can’t deny it. Had 
anybody else but you made me this flattering offer, I’d 


70 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


have kicked him out of the place. As it is allow me to 
wish you a very good-evening ; and permit me to add, 
Monsieur Israels, that you’re a great deal uglier than I 
thought you. I will remedy the defects in the figure you 
thought so like yourself in the morning. I'll do you 
justice, you may rely upon it ; full justice.” 

The artist rang the bell. 

“You couldn’t make me out worse than you have, 
Monsieur Leigh, try your hardest ; unless you put in a 
tail. Adieu, my susceptible young friend,” he added, 
“ you’ll think better of it; and when you come to my 
terms — as I know you will — you’ve only got to ask me for 
a check, and we shall be as good friends as ever. Adieu, 
philosopher.” And Mr. Israels disappeared through the 
embroidered velvet portiere. 

George Leigh sank into a chair, and groaned in the 
spirit. 

“That was a very bitter pill,” he said to himself, “and 
I richly deserved it I suppose I have quarrelled with 
my bread and butter. There was plenty of butter, too, 
about it, but it had a particularly nasty twang. If I tell 
the doctor, he will say I have been a fool. My predeces- 
sor here,” and he looked wearily into the dim shadows 
of the great studio, “would have closed with the offer* 
What right have I to refuse it ? I hate the thing ; but un- 
fortunately I’ve put four months’ good hard work into it, 
and I must stand or fall by the result. I must go on 
searching after the vision that persistently eludes me ; and 
yet I have seen it somewhere in my dreams,” and he 
gazed meditatively at the burning embers of the wood 
fire which was smouldering on the hearth ; “but it has gone 
from me like the faces in the fire which we see and don't 
remember ; like the faces in the fire which we see and 
then forget.” He went on staring at the ashes, which 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


7 * 


gleamed a bright red in the rapidly darkening shadows, 
for a winter’s afternoon in Paris speedily fades into 
night 

When a man has been standing hard at work before an 
easel for four mortal hours, he necessarily become phys- 
ically weary ; it is little to be wondered at that, when 
seated in a luxurious arm-chair in a semi-darkness, only 
illumined by the soft pink light of glowing embers, 
drowsiness should supervene. The young fellow’s eyes 
closed, and he dropped into a profound sleep. Whether 
it was the pleasant glow and warmth from the fire, or the 
mere fact that his mind was habitually dwelling upon his 
picture, or the recent appearance in the flesh of the Jew 
pedler, the creature of his own imagination — who can tell ? 
But in the dream that rapidly overtook him, young Leigh 
actually stood in the tribunal, which for the last four 
months he had been so patiently attempting to realize. 
He felt that he was looking on upon the scene itself, that 
he stood upon the warm marble pavement in the court at 
Athens, an interested spectator in the drama that was being 
played before his mental eye. It seemed to him as if he 
himself was actually concerned in the proceedings that 
were taking place, as if the centuries had rolled back, and 
he were a young Athenian of that fateful period. He 
seemed to gaze upon the double rank of judges, as if they 
were all his personal acquaintances. He seemed to enjoy 
the discomfiture of the Jew pedler, and to resent the ap- 
peal which that much-suffering individual made to him 
for protection. And as his mind dwelt on the incident, 
an amused smile crept over the young fellow’s handsome 
sleeping face. He seemed to hear the noise and uproar of 
the crowd, the hum of voices, and the martial clang of 
the weapons of the soldiery. And then there came a hush ; 
and he turned, in his dream, towards the figure that 


72 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


formed the cynosure of every eye. And then he started, 
for the figure was altogether changed. The pose was the 
same, but the face was different ; it was blushing with a 
real deep ingenuous blush ; the eyes were cast down and 
shaded by their ivory lids, the sweet full lips, slightly 
parted, disclosed the pearly teeth, and the long wealth of 
blond dishevelled hair flowed in rich profusion over the 
rounded shoulders. The young fellow seemed to feel in 
his inmost soul a sort of mingled sensation of delight, 
shame, and horror. As he gazed, he seemed to experi- 
ence a sudden dizziness, a choking in his throat ; and 
gradually, little by little, the figure grew less distinct, the 
surging crowd seemed to struggle more wildly. In his 
dream he how seemed to be irresistibly impelled to ad- 
dress the double row of gorgeously apparelled judges; 
but speech was denied him, and the judges seemed by 
their gestures to mock at him. Then he turned once more 
towards the figure which had moved him so deeply ; to 
his horror the angel-face had disappeared, and only the 
headless trunk, as it stood in the picture, revealed itself to 
his astonished eyes. Gradually it seemed to fade ; the 
bystanders, the judges, the accessories, even the distant 
landscape slowly and insensibly disappeared ; and George 
Leigh was awakened from his dream, his vision, or his 
nightmare — call it which you will — by a heavy hand which 
was placed on his shoulder. 

The young artist awoke with a start. 

The fire had died out, the great studio was in almost 
total darkness, when the dreamer was called back suddenly 
from ancient Athens by the striden^voice of his old friend, 
the doctor, as he shook him roughly by the shoulder, and 
said : 

“ Wake up, young Eutychus ! A voice cries, sleep no 
more. Dinners on the table, Leigh ; and, thank Heaven, 


THE EA TAL PITR YNE. 


73 

for once in my life, I have the appetite of a hungry wolf." 

“ I think I’ve been dreaming," said Leigh, somewhat 
uneasily. 

“ Postpone the interesting account of your visions till 
after dinner, my dear boy,” said the doctor. “Madame 
Tholozan's cook is an artist with whose feelings we must 
not presume to trifle. ” 

And then the two men walked out amicably side by 
side towards the dining-room. 


74 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


CHAPTER VII. 
helene's diary. 

“I wish my husband gave me a little more of his society. 
Nominally I get perhaps more than my fair share, for we 
always breakfast together at noon, after he has done with 
his patients ; and the sounds of the wheels of his coupe 
are a regular dinner-bell, as they rumble through the 
porte-cochere at a quarter to eight. Now, at breakfast as 
well as at dinner, Dr. Tholozan is all that I could wish ; 
he has always something to tell me, he doesn't direct his 
conversation exclusively to Monsieur Leigh ; nor does he 
look upon me as a deaf mute ; nor does he, whenever a 
third person is present, insist on talking, as many clever 
men would do, over my head, simply because I am a wo- 
man and his wife. But as surely as nine o’clock sounds, 
my husband suggests a move to the studio. I was sur- 
prised at first, I own ; after a little while I ventured to re- 
monstrate. 

“‘My child,' my husband said, ‘your charming sex 
differs from ours — you are creatures of impulse, while we 
men are mere machines. What was first a habit with me. 
has become a necessity. While my poor brother was 
alive, I used to do exactly the same ; after dinner we used 
to lounge into the studio, and he would show me his day’s 
work ; he used to get through a vast amount of work in 
a day, poor fellow, such as it was. And then we had our 
partie of tric-trac till bed-time.’ 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


75 

“‘But you don’t have even that with me,’ I com- 
plained. 

“ ‘My child,’ he answered, ‘I am ageing fast. Like 
an old musical box, I still play the same tunes, but I run 
down rather quickly. But then I have provided an effi- 
cient substitute. There is Leigh, who will play to you, 
or sing to you, or read to you, or talk to you ; and he is 
a far more amusing companion than I could be, my child. 
Then, too, I have every confidence in Leigh. I am quite 
certain he would never be foolish enough to make love to 
you.’ 

“What could I say ? On several occasions I persuaded 
my husband to take me into society. I suggested the 
opera, and I expressed a wish to go occasionally to the 
play. My husband never refuses to gratify these desires ; 
but as we drive home I am often startled to see how 
ghastly pale he looks ; and though the poor dear man 
never complains, I see that his health suffers by the late 
hours. And now he has got into a way of excusing him- 
self upon these occasions ; and he has even insisted, that 
with Sophie as a chaperon, M. Leigh could well be our 
cavalier. We tried this arrangement, but it didn’t last 
long. Madame Pichon, half in fun, half in earnest, simu- 
lated a sort of jealousy of me, and rendered it impos- 
sible. Oh, I do so wish that G — - {but the letter was 
erased , being carefully scribbled out) M. Leigh would only 
like Sophie ; they are suited for each other in every way, 
and it does make her so unhappy, poor thing. The worst 
of it is, that our visits to the theatre have become few and 
far between ; and our evenings are almost always the 
same, and are nearly always spent at home. Since the 
weather has become quite cold, M. Leigh has had his 
little piano moved into the great recess, and we play and 
sing together a good deal. But I’m afraid our music is 


THE FATAL PHKYNE . 


76 

altogether wasted on my husband, who, as soon as he 
has inspected and criticised the work that M. Leigh has 
in hand, drops into the great arm-chair as a matter of 
course, and five minutes afterwards is inevitably fast 
asleep. 

“ Poor M. Leigh is getting demoralized, and his picture 
has come altogether to a standstill ; it has been absolutely 
finished a great many times, but he is never satisfied with 
the head of the principal figure. I'm getting terribly 
jealous of this figure, and of late the matter has seemed 
to prey upon the mind of our friend ; he has grown dis- 
satisfied with himself, and my husband declares that the 
Phryne will be his ruin. Sometimes I think that, after 
all, he really does care for Sophie, and that it is only her 
wealth that prevents his telling her so. As for Sophie, 
she makes violent love to him ; there is no other word for 
it. On the last occasion of his decapitating poor Phryne, 
she said to him, with that delicacy which is peculiarly 
her own: ‘I have an idea, Monsieur George/ — she 
always addresses him so, and sometimes she forgets the 
Monsieur altogether — ‘ Niobe was a success, was she 
not? I’ll sit to you for the head, dear Monsieur George.’ 
And then he blushed to his very ears, and looked particu- 
larly foolish. ‘Madame/ he said, with a profound bow, 

‘ I appreciate the sacrifice you would make, but the un- 
happy subject of the picture precludes any honest woman 
from figuring upon the canvas.’ And that effectually 
silenced Sophie. 

“ Ah me ! it’s almost as dull here as it was at Madame 
Pouilly’s ! I even begin to look forward to the banalites of 
my husband’s weekly dinner. He was quite right when he 
told me that I should receive a surfeit of compliments. The 
savants and professors who form the bulk of the guests — 
for Sophie and I are almost always the only ladies — pay 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


77 


their court to both of us in a manner that is supremely 
ridiculous ; but this is a good deal Sophie's fault, for she 
encourages them in a shameful manner ; and they are all 
old enough to know better. Still, they are amusing in 
their way, and have a good deal to say for themselves/’ 

George Leigh was seated on a low stool in front of his 
magnum opus ; but his pallet, brushes, and mahl-stick lay 
idly upon the table. He certainly ought to have been 
working, for the light was good, and it was but ten o’clock 
in the morning. He sat staring at the picture, and then 
he rose, and began to pace the studio. Ever and anon 
he would pause before it, but evidently his imagination 
failed him ; for he returned to his measured step, and con- 
tinued to pace the room with purposeless and weary 
strides, much as we see the great carnivora return to their 
aimless march up and down behind the bars of their den. 
A discreet tap was heard at the door. 

4 ‘Come in,” said the artist, and the doctors parlor 
maid entered the room. 

“A letter, sir, from Madame Pichon,” said the girl, with 
an impertinent smile of intelligence. “ Madame’s man, 
Monsieur Alphonse, said there was no answer.” 

Leigh took the letter from the salver impatiently, and 
thrust it into his pocket. The girl left the room with a 
toss of her head. As soon as she was gone, Leigh sat 
himself again upon the little stool, and broke the seal of 
the dainty epistle. As he read it his color heightened • 
then he perused a newspaper cutting which it contained, 
sprang to his feet, seized his hat and the blackthorn stick 
which stood in the corner, and rushed from the room. 
The contents of the letter which had caused such extraor- 
dinary perturbation were as follows : 


7 8 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


“ Dear Monsieur George, — I have been expecting it all 
along ; I knew only too well that the absurd conduct of 
my unfortunate cousin must culminate at last in some 
terrible esclandre. My expectations have been fulfilled. 
Read the enclosed cutting which I extracted from the 
Barbier of this morning. Ah, my poor George, you and 
I, alas ! can read between the lines. As I glanced at the 
hateful paragraph, the letters seemed to dance before my 
swimming eyes, and I can hardly hold my pen to write 
to you. Alas ! I am the natural guardian of my poor 
cousin’s honor. Oh ! that I were a man, or that poor 
Monsieur Pichon were alive ; he would know how to 
deal with the villain whose business it is to pander to the 
prurient curiosity of the Parisian public. I’ve all along 
seen how it would end. The absurd infatuation of my 
cousin’s wife could have been no secret from either of us. 
Anyhow, it has been plain enough to me for a consider- 
able time. I’ve even felt it my duty to remonstrate with 
her ; alas ! in vain. But my soul’s agony has been con- 
siderably mitigated, for I saw, dear George, that you 
gave her absolutely no encouragement. When a lady 
forgets her feelings of self-respect so far as to show a 
distinct partiality for any gentleman, her only hope of 
salvation is in the generosity of her intended victim. 
Come to me at once, George, for my feelings have 
overpowered me, and I can write ho more. The en- 
closed explains everything. Believe me, with assurances 
of profound esteem, 

“Your sincere and devoted friend, 

“ Sophie Pichon.” 

This was the cutting from the Barbier — 

“ It has been no secret in artistic circles that a young 


THE FATAL FHRYNE. 


79 

foreign artist, who has attained a not altogether unmerited 
success during the last few years, has been engaged in 
the preparation of an ambitious work for the Salon. There 
has been a good deal of unnecessary mystery with refer- 
ence to the subject of the picture ; but this was probably a 
mere ruse to heighten the intended effect. The very latest 
intelligence was, that the work had been purchased by a 
well-known nobleman, an enthusiastic amateur of art, 
and an admirer of all that is good and beautiful. We 
understand, from a very excellent authority indeed, that 
the nobleman in question had actually purchased the 
picture, and, as is not infrequent in these days, at a price 
far higher than its intrinsic value. The work, which is an 
ambitious one, owed its principal, if not its only charm, 
to the fact of the reproduction, with a startling realism of 
the portrait of Mademoiselle Amenaide of the Hippo- 
drome. That young lady’s habitual appearance in the Bois, 
and her nightly successes at the Circus, have, alas ! become 
to many of us almost a necessity of our existence. We 
grudge no man his triumphs. Among our Gallic artists 
there is no- professional jealousy of the successful insulaire. 
We all know that the sons of Albion never belie their rep- 
utation as a nation of shopkeepers ; but it has been the 
fortune of the gentleman to whom we are alluding to have 
been the first to introduce the huckstering spirit into the 
realms of Art. We learn, with regret, that the picture 
was completed to the satisfaction of the noble patron, but 
that the artist, with a commercial genius almost diabolical 
in its perfidious ingenuity, sought to extract from the open- 
handed generosity of the nobleman — who may be termed 
his victim — a still richer recompense than that stipulated. 
With this intention he did not hesitate to threaten to re- 
move from his picture the lovely features of Mademoiselle 
Amenaide, which form the great attraction of his ambi- 


8o 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


tious canvas. His patron naturally believed him incap- 
able of so much baseness. But we learn, with regret, though 
without surprise, that the threat has been carried out. It is 
our lofty mission to hold the scale of justice with an even 
hand ; we are ready at once to insert his dementi , if the 
artist is prepared to make one. With our usual reticence, 
we refrain from mentioning names ; but we give all artists, 
native as well as foreign, a word of good advice. When 
they have made a bargain let them keep it ; let them not 
attempt to advertise themselves by the habitual eccentri- 
city of their conduct. Society, in our capital, does more 
than tolerate men of genius — it welcomes them with open 
arms. But long-suffering Paris will indignantly reject 
from her charmed circle a man who dares to trifle with 
all that is most holy ; who presumes to render venal 
his sacred art, or who attempts, with unpardonable pre- 
sumption, to afficher himself at public amusements and 
ceremonies, by his habitual attendance upon the wives or 
widows of our most respectable Bourgeoisie . X. ” 

****** 

George Leigh jumped into the first fiacre , and told the 
driver to hasten to the office of the Barbier. It was a 
sufficiently pretentious building on one of the principal 
boulevards. There was an immense amount of florid 
ornamentation about it ; all the doors were of mahogany, 
and there was a great deal of gilding, tile work, orna- 
mental brass and iron. Above the entrance was a little 
bronze statue of the historical barber. In the center of 
the great hall, upon a lofty pedestal, was a life-size marble 
statue, representing the barber discreetly placing his finger 
at the side of his nose. At least half a dozen big files of 
the journal were chained to a sloping desk, and were being 
eagerly consulted by interested members of the Parisian 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 8 1 

public; a long counter accommodated the numerous 
advertisers ; in one corner was the cashiers office, care- 
fully protected by bars and wires of shining brass. 
Telegrams, as they arrived, were exhibited for the con- 
venience of the quidnuncs ; and a board, with at least 
sixty numbers upon it, indicated the whereabouts of the 
various officials of the journal. 

George Leigh ran his eye down the long list of 
names and titles — from Redacteur-en-chef to Third Con- 
troller of the advertisements — and then he looked round 
him at the busy scene with an air of hopeless confusion ; 
but the word Inquiries, in black letters upon a gilt plate, 
reassured him ; he walked straight to the little counter 
which was presided over by a respectable old gentleman, 
whose coat-cuffs were protected by black linen sleeves 
which reached to his elbows. 

“Will you oblige me, sir,” he said, politely, “with the 
address of a correspondent who signs himself X.” 

The old gentleman smiled, and then he shrugged his 
shoulders almost to his ears. 

“My dear sir,” he said, “there are so many of them. 
It is the commonest of all initials used by anonymous 
contributors. ” 

Young Leigh drew from his pocket the cutting from the 
morning’s Barbier. 

“ I should like to have a few moments’ conversation 
with the author of this,” he said, quietly. 

The old gentleman adjusted his spectacles and carefully 
perused the paragraph. Then he smiled blandly. 

“ Has Monsieur his visiting card about him ? ” he said. 

“Certainly,” said Leigh, as he handed him one. 

The old gentleman scrutinized the card, gave another 
bland little smile, and said softly : 

“ And Monsieur considers himself aggrieved ? ” 


82 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


‘ ‘ Naturally, ” said Leigh. * ‘ Naturally. ” 

“Ah, in that case/’ said the old gentleman, “you had 
better see our Monsieur Laguerre.” 

“May I ask,” said Leigh, “does Monsieur Laguerre 
accept the responsibility of the paragraph ? ” 

“Oh, by no means, dear sir, by no means. But he 
will be able to give you information, possibly. In fact, 
monsieur, your business can only be arranged through his 
intervention ; that is, if you consider yourself an injured 
party ; though, for my part, monsieur, were I you, I 
should take the common-sense view, and look upon the 
paragraph as an excellent and gratuitous advertisement,” 
and he made Leigh a little bow. 

“ I am afraid I must ask for an interview with Monsieur 
Laguerre, all the same,” said Leigh, and his fingers 
grasped very tightly indeed the tough little blackthorn 
stick which he held in his hand. 

“Certainly, my dear sir, certainly,” said the old gentle- 
man. “The staff of this journal is ever at the disposition 
of the public, ” and then he stepped back, and whistled 
up a tube ; then he spoke through it, and placed his ear 
to it to receive the answer. “Our Monsieur Laguerre,” he 
said, “will be delighted to receive you, sir.” He struck 
a hand bell, and a magnificently attired footman — who 
looked more like the Suisse of some cathedral than an or- 
dinary domestic — immediately presented himself. The 
old gentleman handed the card to the man. “This 
gentleman desires to see Captain Laguerre,” he said. 

“ Be kind enough to follow me, sir,” said the footman, 
and his face wore a look of discreet amusement. 

Leigh followed the man to the second floor of the vast 
building ; the footman tapped at a door, and a heavy bass 
voice directed him to enter. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


83 

“ Mr. Leigh, to see Captain Laguerre,” he said, and re- 
tired immediately. 

Captain Laguerre rose from his chair by the fire, and 
politely motioned his visitor to a seat. 

He was a sufficiently truculent individual ; his red hair 
was cut short upon his head like a brush, as is the manner 
of French cavalry officers ; he stood about six feet two, 
and in face and appearance he looked what he was, the 
bully, or bull dog, of the establishment. 

“ Monsieur George Leigh, I believe/’ said he, as he 
perused the card. “I haven’t the pleasure of your ac- 
quaintance. Be good enough to proceed with your busi- 
ness, sir ; always remembering that my time, which is 
the property of the journal, is excessively valuable. ” And 
then he gave a great grin, which showed a double row of 
strong white teeth, and he looked more like a bull dog 
than ever. 

George Leigh took a seat. 

“ Captain Laguerre,” he said, politely, “ I have been 
recommended to address myself to you to obtain the in- 
formation which I desire. Will you kindly place me in 
communication with the person signing himself X. the 
author of this paragraph,” and he handed him the cutting, 
“ which is personally offensive to me.” 

Captain Laguerre laughed a great horse-laugh. “ My 
good sir,” he said, “ you are evidently not a literary man, 
or you would know that a journal such as ours never gives 
up the names of its anonymous correspondents. It prefers 
rather to accept the responsibility. May I ask in what 
way you are aggrieved, Monsieur Leigh ? ” 

“The entire paragraph, Captain Laguerre, is a tissue of 
abominable falsehoods and fabrications. I have made no 
contract with any nobleman to sell my picture ; I have 
never painted in it the portrait of Mademoiselle Ame- 


84 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


naide, who is personally unknown to me. Statements 
such as these are as injurious to me as they are false ; I 
would have treated them with the contempt they deserve 
but for the abominable calumny contained in the last sen- 
tence of the paragraph. ” 

“ Quite so, Monsieur Leigh, quite so,” replied the other ; 
“the editor will be only too delighted to receive your de- 
nials ; it will add a piquancy, a flavor, to the whole affair. 
Or, should you prefer it, you have your remedy in the law 
courts. My proprietors are wealthy, Monsieur Leigh,” he 
continued, with a smile. 

“There is a third course, I think,” said Leigh, quietly ; 
“Some one will, I suppose, undertake the responsibility 
of the paragraph? ” 

“Sir,” said Captain Laguerre, very solemnly, as he 
pulled up his shirt collar. “ I presume you allude to an 
appeal to physical force ? ” 

Leigh nodded. 

“In that case, Monsieur Leigh, it is as well that the 
rest of our interview should take place in the presence 
of a witness. ” 

“ As you please,” said Leigh, wearily, and he grasped 
his stick all the tighter. 

Captain Laguerre rose, opened the door which com- 
municated with the adjoining apartment, and said me- 
chanically, “Would you mind stepping in here a minute 
Duvivier ? ” 

A gentleman at once entered the room, and to Leigh’s 
astonishment he recognized his old friend, the dramatist. 
The two young men shook hands. 

“ You’ve come about that miserable paragraph, I sup- 
pose,” said Duvivier. “ My dear boy,” he continued, in 
English, “ I can see you have every intention of making 
a row. Don’t be an idiot. Haven’t you the sense to see 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


85 

that our muscular friend is but a paid assassin, a mere 
hired bravo, who draws a weekly salary to represent 
brute force ? If you attempt to horsewhip the journal in 
his person, you are bound to get the worst of it ; and he 
will spit you, or shoot you afterwards, without the smallest 
compunction. ” 

“I’m quite indifferent to that,” said Leigh, dogged- 

iy- 

“Quite so, quite so. But, unfortunately, so is he ; 
that is his raison d'etre . I’ve read the miserable para- 
graph ; be guided by me, my dear fellow, don't fight with 
a woman. You must see, if you reflect coolly, the hand 
of Mademoiselle Amenaide in this wretched affair. Take 
my advice, don’t touch pitch. I will see that the whole 
thing is contradicted in the next edition. If you proceed 
to violence — as is but natural — you wduld be merely sell- 
ing the paper for the next month, and the verdict of the 
public would be, * No smoke without fire ! ' You'll excuse 
us, Laguerre,” continued Duvivier, returning once more 
to his native tongue, “Monsieur Leigh is a personal friend 
of mine, and I've been telling him he’ll only make himself 
ridiculous, and damage his own cause, by a resort to vio- 
lence.” 

“ Settle it between you, gentlemen,” said the captain. 
“ It’s a matter of indifference to me.” 

“ I've gone too far to draw back now,” said Leigh to 
his friend. 

Duvivier placed his hand upon his shoulder. “Have 
you counted the cost, Leigh ? ” he asked, solemnly ; * * the 
cost to her ? You and I, my friend, can see the sting of 
the innuendo ; but few beside ourselves, fortunately for us 
and for her, can read the riddle it contains. Come and 
breakfast with me, George ? ” 


86 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


Leigh saw the force of his friend’s argument ; there was 
no resisting it. 

“ Captain Laguerre,” he said, with formal politeness, 

“ I regret having trespassed upon your valuable time ; my 
inexperience is my only excuse. I will detain you no 
longer, and with your permission I will take my leave. ,, 

Captain Laguerre sighed, and bowed mechanically, and 
the two friends quitted the lion’s den. 

They breakfasted together ; but Leigh fought very shy, 
indeed, of the subject of his relations with the ladies of 
Dr. Tholozan’s family. 

“You were always a silent fellow, Leigh,” said his 
friend. “Still waters run deep. Ah, my boy,” he con- 
tinued, “if you’d only been a Frenchman you would have 
told me all about it, long ago. Anyhow,” said he, as he 
shook his friend’s hand at parting, “ I’ll see that it’s con- 
tradicted authoritatively. You may trust me to do that.” 

Duvivier was as good as his word. The following ap- 
peared in the second edition of the Barbier , and in the 
succeeding day’s issue of the journal : 

“We have the highest authority for stating that the par- 
agraph signed X. in our issue of this morning was an im- 
pudent hoax. The talented young artist who was alluded 
to has informed us that the statements with regard to 
Mademoiselle Amenaide were entirely without foundation. 
We are much gratified to receive from him this categorical 
denial ; and regret extremely any annoyance we may 
have unwittingly occasioned him.” 

And then the matter dropped. 

That night the little quartette, in the big recess by the 
studio fire, talked the whole thing over. Madame Pichon 
expressed her indignation, but the doctor laughed at the 
affair as unworthy of notice. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


87 

“Play to us, Helene, ” he said ; “let us think of it no 
more, it isn’t worth talking about ; though one thing seems 
quite certain to me, Leigh/’ he added : “you may depend 
upon it that it was merely a manoeuvre of that little rascal 
Israels, after all.” 

Probably the doctor was right. 


88 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


CHAPTER VIII. 
helene’s diary. 

“I don’t know why Sophie is still so very angry with 
George about the newspaper paragraph. It was but a 
tissue of absurdities from first to last ; and why poor 
George should be accused of making himself conspicuous 
because he is good-natured enough to act as our cavalier, 
I cannot understand. It would be very much nicer if he 
were married to Sophie, after all ; for then there would be 
no impropriety in my thinking of him as George, as I find 
I have done inadvertently within the three last minutes. 
It was only this morning that I said to Felix, ‘ Monsieur 
Leigh seems to find it difficult to make up his mind. ’ 
‘ Madame Pichon has no trouble on that subject,’ said 
he ; ‘ but I think my young friend is finding attractions 
elsewhere.’ 

“ ‘Oh, Felix ! ’ I cried — for I was indignant at such a 
suspicion — ‘why, he never even goes into society.” 

“ ‘ My dear child, ’ said my husband, ‘ that is but natural, 
if the attraction is at home.’ I didn’t see his meaning at 
first. 

“ ‘ It isn’t kind to tease me, Felix,’ I said, when I un- 
derstood the innuendo. 

“ ‘ My child, it is the most natural thing in life,’ my hus- 
band answered, ‘ and one of the commonest. When an 
old fool,’ he went on, ‘that’s me — commits the indiscre- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


89 

tion of forming a marriage with a young and beautiful 
woman — that’s you,’ he said, with a little bow — ‘all his 
male friends — be they young, old, or middle-aged — are 
seized with a sudden sympathetic compassion for the 
victim. Pity, my child, you know, is akin to love. 
Doubtless Monsieur Leigh loves you, Helene. Anyhow, 
I know he pities you/ 

‘ Felix,’ I said, and I was getting angry, ‘ your badi- 
nage is in bad taste ; at least, it seems so to me/ 

“ ‘ My child,’ he replied, ‘ I am far from joking. I don't 
remember that I ever joked in my life. I repeat, Helene : 
young Leigh loves you. And where’s the harm ? You, 
too, my child, in your way, you, too, I think, love him a 
little.' And he looked into my eyes in a way that seemed 
to fascinate me, and then he took my hand. ‘ What is 
more natural ? Here are two young people thrown 
together by force of circumstances, and by no fault of their 
own ; the man is romantic, handsome — an artist openly 
searching for an ideal. Is it strange, is it to be wondered 
at, if he should find that ideal in the lovely young wife of 
his old friend? And why should the husband object? 
The man he knows to be the soul of honor ; he knows the 
woman would not wrong him. My child, the old fool 
trusts his wife and his friend ; the confidence of silly old 
fellows such as he is surprising ; it becomes almost touch- 
ing at times, does it not, my child? ' I burst into tears. 

“ ‘Don’t weep, Helfcne,’ he said, kindly; ‘you have 
nothing to weep for, or to be ashamed of, but you have 
everything to hope. I am but your husband in name. 
Helbne ; and you won’t have long to wait. My experi- 
ence has told me what your innocent eyes, my child, have 
failed to see. George Leigh loves you far more than he 
loves his art ; and I say again, what is more natural ? and 


THE FATAL PITRYNE . 


90 

again I ask, where’s the harm ? ’ Then I became really 
angry. 

“ ‘ Dr. Tholozan,’ I said, ‘ this passes all bounds. You 
have ceased to respect me when you deliberately hold me 
up to ridicule/ 

“ ‘ My child, I do more than respect you ; I love you 
with the fond and ever watchful affection — of a father. 
You and Leigh will yet be happy. I pray to God it may 
be soon.’ And then he pressed his hand upon his heart, 
turned ghastly pale, and hurriedly left the room. 

“ The extraordinary communication which my husband 
has made to me has upset me altogether. Never have I 
so much as suspected M. Leigh of feeling the slightest 
partiality for me ; still less have I had the slightest reason 
to doubt myself. I have liked Monsieur Leigh, it is true; 
but then everybody likes him ; and I have sympathized 
with Sophie, I have wished — I have honestly wished — 
that they might be happy in each other’s love. Is not 
that sufficient proof ? What woman, with even a penchant 
for any man, could desire to see him happily married 
to another? It isn’t reasonable; it isn’t even possible. 
George, too, is the soul of honor ; were he thinking of 
me with any other feeling but one of simple kindness, he 
is far too honest a man to expose himself to temptation. 
And yet my husband wasn’t joking ! I feel that he 
meant every word he said. Why did he tell me that he 
— that I — that we — should not have long to wait ? Can it 
be possible that, knowing he is not long for this world, he 
has merely given me his name in order to provide for his 
old friend’s daughter ? Can he have done this thing de- 
liberately, and calmly ? For Felix is no man of impulse. 
Or has he of set purpose planned for me this terrible 
ordeal, as a mere trial, as a snare ? I have not knowingly 
offended him. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


91 


“ Why did my husband tell me this ? 

“ He has destroyed my peace of mind. I feel as one 
who is compelled to walk on the brink of a terrible preci- 
pice. God guard my trembling feet ! ” 

Pretty Madame Pichon entered the studio that morning 
as was her custom. She felt herself at home there. Why 
should she stand on any ceremony in her own cousin’s 
house ? 

“You haven’t got on a bit, George,'’ she said ; “not a 
bit.” 

‘ ‘ No, Madame Pichon, ” he replied, ‘ ‘ I’ve come to a dead 
lock. There’s always something happening to upset my 
ideas ; I’m perpetually annoyed by some disturbing influ- 
ence or other.” 

“Do you mean that you want to be alone, George?” 
said Madame Pichon, plaintively. 

What could the poor young fellow say ? 

“Far from it,” he replied; “but I fear I am a very 
poor companion. I’m dull and distrait, and my imagina- 
tion fails me. A sort of blight seems to have come upon 
me.” 

“You take things too seriously,” said the lady, with a 
sigh, as she dropped into a chair ; “I have suffered my- 
self,” she continued, in a semi-tragic voice, “more than 
most women, but I grin and bear it ; and I try to make 
the grin, Monsieur Leigh, as becoming as possible. You 
are getting morbid, George,” she said. “You’ve done 
nothing but rub out the head of that principal figure of 
yours one day, and put in a fresh one the next, for the 
last month. But I’m not surprised at that, after all, ” she 
said, with a meditative purr, “your Niobe was your 
masterpiece. Don't you think so ? ” And then the 
widow turned her head away, and blushed violently. 


92 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


“Yes, in a way,” he said, carelessly, “in away, I sup- 
pose it was. It was a success as a portrait, you know ; 
but this is a more ambitious work. I began it con amore , 
and now I’ve come to a dead lock, and I hate the sight 
of it.” 

“And didn’t you paint the Niobe con amore V’ said 
Madame Pichon ; and her little foot began to tap im- 
patiently, as she awaited his answer. 

“ Madame,” said the artist, with a bow, “that was a 
work of pleasure, this is a more serious matter. I have 
attempted a loftier flight here, and I have failed ; I own 
it, I have miserably failed.” 

“Are you quite sure I don’t interrupt you, Monsieur 
Leigh? ” said the widow. “ Quite, quite sure.” 

“Far from it, Madame ; I am so used to your daily 
presence here, that I don’t know what I should do with- 
out your liberal criticism and good-humored praise.” 

“Then I shall stay here,” said Madame Pichon. 
“ George,” she asked, “ shall I play to you ? ” 

“Madame Pichon is only too indulgent to my weak- 
nesses,” he said, with a bow. 

“ Then don’t mind me. Stay where you are, ” she said, 
“ I wouldn’t have you quit your easel, even for an 
instant ; though I know you are going to offer to open the 
piano for me.” 

Madame Pichon removed the elaborate structure which 
Celestine called a chapeau a la villageoise, then she took off 
her gloves with some difficulty; she opened the piano, 
and then she began to play. She played without soul, 
but she played brilliantly, all the same. She did her very 
best to cheer the artist ; and there was nothing melan- 
choly or romantic in the choice of any of her pieces — 
pieces which she literally fired off, one after another, in a 
florid but effective style. She kept her word — she didn’t 


THE FA TAL PHRYNE. 


93 

speak, but went on playing steadily, and in five minutes 
George Leigh had ceased to be aware of her very exist- 
ence. 

Suddenly he took a bit of pointed charcoal, and sketched 
in the face of the hitherto headless figure of Phryne with 
feverish rapidity. Then he began to work upon it with his 
brushes ; occasionally stepping back a pace or two to 
watch the effect. Still Madame Pichon played on ; and 
as ever and anon she looked at the young fellow over her 
shoulder, and saw that he was hard at work, a smile of 
pleasure stole over her soft features, and a look of triumph 
sparkled in her handsome eyes. Leigh worked on with 
the rapidity which was habitual with him ; gradually the 
face grew under his creative fingers, and gradually a like- 
ness became more and more apparent ; the big blue eyes 
of the face he was creating looked at the painter with a 
loving gaze ; streams of waving blonde hair now began to 
fall in luxuriant ringlets over the shoulder of the Phryne ; 
the slightly parted lips disclosed the pearl-like teeth in the 
soft habitual smile, which was a second nature to Dr. 
Tholozan’s wife. 

The face was the face of a lovely woman ; indeed, it 
was the face of an angel. But it was not the face of a 
Phryne. 

Still Madame Pichon continued to pour forth her flood 
of merry melody from the artist’s piano, and still George 
Leigh continued to work with a rapid and skilful hand 
upon the face that grew under his deft fingers. He 
stepped back for the last time, he advanced once more, 
and with one loving touch indicated a tiny dimple upon 
Phryne’s cheek. Then he placed his palette upon the 
table with a satisfied air, kissed his finger tips to the 
charming creation of his memory and imagination, and 
flung himself into a big arm-chair. Just then the music 


94 


THE FATAL PHKYNE. 


ended with a triumphant crash. George Leigh was sud- 
denly transported from the realms of imagination, and 
awoke to the realities of life, and the presence of Madame 
Sophie Pichon in the flesh. 

There was very little tragedy about pretty Madame 
Pichon ; but if ever she looked like a tragedy queen, and 
really in a good natural wholesome rage, she looked so 
now. 

“ George," She said, in a sepulchral voice — and she 
clenched her chubby little hands in impotent fury — 

“ George ! ” she repeated, in a shriller tone, and she 
stamped in her anger. The painter turned to her with a 
weary look. 

“Have you no shame, Monsieur Leigh?" said the 
widow, indignantly ; “ don’t you know that your heart- 
less wickedness is sufficient to compromise my cousin’s 
wife ? Can’t you see, that her husband’s suspicions once 
aroused, the happiness of their married life would be for- 
ever ruined ? Don’t look at the picture in that irritating 
manner, George. I have long expected it ; but I steeled 
my heart. George Leigh, you are a false, faithless, fickle 
man. You have been trifling with me, and now you are 
about to seek a fresh victim. You are about to attempt 
to ensnare the affections of the inexperienced girl, whom 

my cousin — who is old enough to have known better 

has been sufficiently infatuated with to have made his wife. 
Never till this moment have I felt so much the want of a 
natural protector ; never till now have I realized what it is 
to be utterly friendless. Oh, George, would that the late 
Monsieur Pichon were alive ! ’’ and she laughed hysteri- 
cally, and flung herself into the astonished painter’s 
arms. 

What was the poor young man to do? Madame , 
Pichon was looking up into his face with streaming eyes, 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


95 


and she laughed a succession of horrid, hard, unnatural 
laughs that astonished, and, at the same time, frightened 
the young man. He couldn’t ring for assistance, for 
Madame Pichon was clutching his arms very tightly in- 
deed. He had vague ideas about burnt feathers, the 
cutting of stay-laces, and the slapping of hands ; and 
never having seen a lady hysterically sobbing before he 
was honestly frightened. 

“ Oh, George, George, George ! ” gasped Madame 
Pichon ; and still continuing to clutch his arms, she buried 
her face in his bosom. 

The porttire was raised, and Dr. Tholozan, who ad- 
vanced with noiseless strides over the thick Turkey carpet, 
entered the studio. It is rather a trying thing for any 
man to enter a room suddenly and unannounced, and to 
find it occupied by a gentleman and lady in iete-a-tete — 
the gentleman looking particularly foolish, and the lady’s 
countenance altogether hidden from view upon his 
breast 

“ Pardon me, my dear good young people,” he said, 
and at the unexpected sound of his voice Madame Pichon 
gave a little scream, flung herself into the artist’s easy- 
chair, and buried her face in her hands. 

“ Well, my dear Sophie,” he continued, “ you told me 
once there was nothing you wouldn’t do for Art’s sake, 
and upon my word I’m inclined to believe you. I hope 
you will both pardon the intrusion.” 

“ Stay, Felix,” cried Madame Pichon, as she sprang to 
her feet. “Disabuse yourself of the idea that there is 
anything between Monsieur Leigh and myself ; if ever 
any such phantasy existed between us, it is over now for- 
ever. You may laugh, Felix,” she added, “but you 
will need all your sang-froid, even if your mind does not 
give way at once under the blow. Look there ! ” she said, 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


96 

theatrically — and she pointed suddenly to the picture with 
a tragic air — “ That, Felix, that will explain every- 
thing ! ” 

Dr. Tholozan turned his eyes towards the picture, and 
his great forehead flushed. He didn’t speak at first. 

“It’s a little flattered, Leigh,” he said, after a pause, 
carelessly. “Yes, I think it really is a little flattered. 
You do my poor family too much honor, Leigh,” said the 
doctor, coldly. “If you wished to surprise me by an 
artistic joke, you have succeeded. After all, it is but a 
joke ; not in the best taste, perhaps, but still a joke. ” Dr. 
Tholozan had apparently regained his insouciance ; but 
young Leigh’, who knew him well, saw that the calmness 
of his face was merely a mask to conceal his real emotion, 
for his eyes still sparkled like coals of fire. 

Leigh was not deceived. The cold-blooded doctor, 
ever a suspicious man, was evidently bitterly offended. 
What would the doctor think ? What would he suspect ? 
With a hollow laugh, and with unshaking hand, Leigh 
took a sponge, and in an instant wiped away the charm- 
ing dream-face that had formed the climax of his work. 

“I think,” said he, with a forced smile, “ that Madame’s 
features make my thirtieth unsuccessful attempt at the face 
of the beautiful Greek.” 

“Ah, mon ami , it is a pity,” said Dr. Tholozan. “I 
regret that you should have deprived us, and the world, 
of so startling a token of your — hum — appreciation of my 
wife’s charms. But, after all, I think it was a foolish act. ” 

“Forgive me, my old friend,” said Leigh, offering his 
hand. “I plead guilty to bad taste, I acknowledge a 
foolish indiscretion ; but half the prettiest women in Paris 
have figured upon this canvas. ” 

“And will figure yet again, my friend, I fear, before 
you are satisfied,” said the doctor with a smile, as he took 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


97 


the artists hand. “But where is Sophie? She has 
disappeared like the unsubstantial pageant of a vision 
faded. Were it not for her hat and gloves I should have 
doubted the evidence of my senses. Anyhow, she has 
effected a sudden retreat without beat of drum or sound 
of trumpet. George, my boy,” he added, meaningly, 
“you’ve a great deal to answer for. ” And then he left 
the room. 

“ I must have been mad,” said Leigh to himself, as he 
sank into his chair once more, and stared disconsolately 
at the headless figure of Phryne. “ I have committed an 
indiscretion for which there is no excuse, no palliation ; 
an indiscretion which my old friend will never forgive. 
I forgot that I was not alone. And what could Madame 
Pichon have meant by the ridiculous scene she made ? 
Can it be that she was simply furiously angry — with a 
woman’s senseless unreasoning jealousy — at the realiza- 
tion of the fact that her simple good looks paled before the 
transcendant beauty of her cousins wife ? It must be 
that, for the only other possible interpretation of her con- 
duct would be that she does me the honor to make love 
to me ; and I have hardly sufficient self-conceit to sus- 
pect that. What did the doctor mean by saying 
that I had much to answer for? Can it be possible,” 
thought the young man to himself, “that I have been 
sufficiently base, mean enough, and dishonorable enough, 
to fall in love (hateful phrase) with my old friend’s young 
wife ? Great heavens ! let me banish the horrible suspicion 
at once !” And he shuddered involuntarily. “ Ah, me ! 
but I fear it is so, though ; and that only now have I 
become alive to the depth of my own degradation. Miser- 
able fool that I have been ! I must go from this place 
which has been so long my home ; tear myself from these 
associations, so delightful, but at the same time so danger- 


9 8 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


ous. And what reason can I give the doctor ? I’ll be 
honest with him, and I'll tell him everything. How can 
I stay here, getting day by day deeper and deeper in the 
mire ? for I do love her. Yes, I do love the very ground 
she walks upon. Alas ! I have loved her since the moment 
when my old friend, in his honest confidence, trium- 
phantly exhibited her likeness to me. Why did he tell me 
to keep it? Will her glorious eyes — though I should flee 
from her delicious presence — ever cease to trouble my 
tortured heart ? Ah ! it has been a delightful dream, and 
it is a rude awakening. But I’ll be honest, and I’ll tear 
myself away. She shall never know that I have dared to 
love her. What will she think of me when she hears — as 
hear she will — that I have dared to desecrate her angel 
face by depicting it on a canvas such as this? Brute, 
beast that I was ! " 

Just then there came a tap at the door. 

“Come in,’’ said the painter, in an irritated tone, “come 
in,” and Madame Pichon’s pert little abigail entered the 
room. 

“I’ve come to get Madame’s hat and gloves, sir,” said 
the girl, with a knowing look. “She’s very ill, my poor 
lady, sir,” continued the maid, as she adjusted her cuff’s. 

“I hope it’s nothing serious, Francine,” said the artist, 
who felt compelled to say something. 

“Oh, she's been very bad, sir,” said the girl ; “she’s a 
very good-natured lady, sir, ordinarily ; but when I asked 
her if there was anything I could do for her she threatened 
to box my ears, and she looked as if she meant it too, 
sir, for the matter of that. And she left me a message, 
sir, for you. I was to say, sir, that she was far too upset 
to stay to dinner. I can’t think what has come to her ; I 
can't, indeed. Poor lady, she looked quite broken- 
hearted. " 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


99 


CHAPTER IX. 

For three whole days Madame Pichon had not appeared 
at her cousin's house ; and it must be confessed that the . 
huge place grew a trifle gloomy to the painter, as well as 
to the doctor and his wife. Leigh was silent, and appar- 
ently depressed ; he avoided Dr. Tholozan's eye, and 
when their looks did meet, the doctor's thin lips would 
quiver with suppressed amusement, and young Leigh 
would blush to his ears. Each day at dinner-time Dr. 
Tholozan’s wife anxiously inquired after the young 
widow ; each day the answer was the same. 

“ My child, she is overwrought and nervous. No, it's 
no use your going to see her, for she denies herself to 
everybody, and she persists in thinking herself ill.” 

“ But you say she keeps her bed, Felix ? ” 

“No, I don't think I should call it keeping her bed, my 
child; it isn't exactly that. She lies in state, as it were; 
she has got her drawing-room darkened, and she receives 
me extended full length upon a sofa, from which she does 
not deign to rise. There she holds a sort of lit de justice. 

At first she groans, she sighs, and she talks about the late 
Monsieur Pichon ; and she looks more like Niobe than 
ever ; she even hints at getting back her late husband's 
portrait from Pichonville : that’s a bad symptom. To-day 
she asked me if I should be surprised if she took to relig- 
ion, and became a Little Sister of the Poor. But when I 


THE FATAL PHR YNE. 


no 

told her that she would have to wear the dress — which is 
not a becoming one — she seemed to think better of it. If 
I didn’t know Sophie as well as I do, I should think she 
was getting morbid, for the table at her side was covered 
with religious books. As it is, I know she is only posing ; 
for I saw a fat yellow-covered novel sticking out from 
under her pillow. I don’t think she’ll stay away long, 
you know ; for she insists on my stopping with her at 
least an hour, and she manifests a discreet interest in all 
three of us. ” 

“I shall go to her to-morrow, Felix,” said Madame 
Tholozan with determination. 

“I doubt her consenting to see you, my child. She 
declares herself en retraite. ” 

“There’s no reason why she shouldn’t see me. I 
haven’t offended her in any way ; and when the moun- 
tain wouldn't come to Mahomet, you remember that 
he cast ceremony aside and called first. It can’t go on, 
you know, Felix ; it’s so dull for me to be alone all day ; 
and she must feel it dull, too, in that great house all alone 
by herself. I shall certainly go and see her to-morrow, 
and if she denies herself, I shall force my way in.” 

Dr. Tholozan made no reply ; and a silence of consider- 
able length ensued, which was only broken by the ticking 
of the big Louis Quinze clock. At length the doctor, who 
appeared to have sunk into a semi-doze before the fire, 
opened his eyes, and, turning to the artist, said : 

“Has it dawned upon you, my young friend, that you 
have got just eight days left to finish your picture ? If 
I’m not mistaken, it has to be sent in this day week. 
You’ll have to close with Mademoiselle Amenaide, after 
all, Leigh,” and the doctor chuckled. 

“No,” said Leigh, “I have managed to avoid that. 
I’m getting on with the head, at last” 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


IOI 


“What, another portrait, Leigh ? ” said the doctor; 
“ another portrait, eh ? ” 

The artist blushed. “ I'm going to cut the knot as did 
the wily Greek of old. No more portraits for me, no more 
ideal faces. I am now carrying out an ingenious 
American idea. The face is a composition. It’s a 
splendid plan, you know, in theory. Your American 
photographer gets twenty wise men and twenty beautiful 
women ; he photographs them, and by taking a little of 
each, and combining them all, he is supposed to produce 
a portrait of the typical Sage and the typical Beauty. Oh, 
I’m hard at it now ; it smells rather of the base mechanical, 
but needs must, you see, doctor, when the devil drives ; 
and, as you say, I have but a week before me. ” 

“You're joking, Leigh,” said Dr. Tholozan. 

“Not a bit of it,” replied the painter, “it’s sad and 
solemn earnest. In a couple of days I shall have finished 
the head ; and then the wicked critics may work their will 
upon me as soon as they are ready to begin. And I shall 
be very glad, indeed, when it’s all over, for it’s knocking 
me up. I’m getting morose and irritable ; in fact, I think 
I'm getting ill ; and in my case it’s not posing, for my 
appetite has failed me, I cannot sleep, and I am always 
feverish and out of sorts.” 

“You should try change of air and scene for a while,” 
remarked the doctor, with meaning. 

“ Yes,” said the artist, “that’s exactly what I intend to 
do. A run to the sea or the mountains will do me good. 
I’ve toiled away in this studio for so long, that I’m getting 
what the gardeners call pot-bound. Ah ! ” cried the 
young fellow, as if in pain, and he clapped his hand to 
his left shoulder. “I can’t make it out,” he added, 
apologetically “ I’ve had these twinges all day long. I'm 
out of sorts, old friend. With Madame’s permission, I 


102 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


think I will retire," and bidding the doctor and his wife 
good-night the artist left the studio. 

“ Is poor Monsieur George really ill, Felix ? ” said 
Madame Tholozan. 

‘ 1 1 fear he’s in for an attack of rheumatic fever, my 
child." 

“And this disorder, is it dangerous, Felix?" 

“At times, yes. It’ll mean six weeks in bed, at any 
rate. But he is a young and healthy fellow ; there won’t 
be much danger," said the doctor, “unless the heart is 
affected — unless the heart is affected. " 

“Poor Monsieur George!" murmured Madame Tho- 
lozan innocently, as she gazed into the smouldering fire 
of wood. 

“You’ll have to nurse him, Hel&ne," said Dr. Tho- 
lozan; “we can’t leave the poor fellow to the tender 
mercies of a hired nurse. " 

And then Madame Tholozan flushed a little. “ I will 
nurse him, Felix," she said, “if you think it right. But 
perhaps you are mistaken. Let us hope so." 

“ No, I’m not mistaken, Helfcne. The determination 
to finish this unlucky picture of his has, till now, kept him 
out of bed, where by rights he ought to be ; that same 
determination may keep him going to-morrow, but after 
that he will break down utterly, and you and Sophie Will 
have your hands full. It’s a curious thing, Helene," the 
doctor continued, “but as yet I haven’t seen this new 
departure of Leigh’s. Let us come and have a look at it." 

The doctor took the long lighting-rod from its cup- 
board, turned the gas lever, and, with dexterous hand, 
applied a light to the big gasalier. The great picture 
sprang into view in an instant. 

With the exception of the head of the principal figure it 
was unchanged. Madame Tholozan, as she leant on her 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


103 

husband’s arm in the semi-obscurity of the great studio, 
stood and gazed at it in silence. “It’s a very beautiful 
face,” she said, slowly. “Yes,” she repeated, “ the face 
is a success. It’s a refined face.” 

“It’s clever, that's undeniable,” said the doctor ; “ and 
it's certainly not the face of Mademoiselle Amenaide, for 
there’s nothing vulgar or venal about it ; but he's had a 
more beautiful face than that upon his canvas.” 

“No, Felix, not more beautiful : this is very lovely.” 

“ She does not know, then, of our young friend’s indis- 
cretion,” thought the doctor. 

“ Well, at all events to my mind, Helfcne, one at least 
of its predecessors surpassed it. But by this face he'll 
have to stand or fall. It’s evidently a composition this, as 
he says. It’ll be a pleasant surprise for Sophie, at any 
rate. Do you know, Helene, that Sophie actually offered 
to sit for the head ? ” 

“ She said it, but she couldn’t have meant it, Felix.” 

“ Oh, I don't know ; there is no end to Sophie’s oblig- 
ing good nature. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she 
had offered to pose for the figure. Ay, and done it, too,” 
said the doctor, “ ‘for the sake of Art,’ as she would 
put it.” 

“Oh, Felix, you’re too hard on her.” 

“I don’t think either you or I, Helene, would care to 
see the face of one we love occupying the principal posi- 
tion on such a canvas as this.” 

“No, indeed, Felix; it would be too horrible.” 

“My child, most of our fair Parisians would consider it 
a high honor. They would be delighted at so signal a 
recognition of their charms, from so successful a man as 
our young friend ; and they would don their most elabo- 
rate costume, and pose at the private view, lest the public 
of the world's capital should fail to be alive to the fact.” 


104 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


“No, Felix; no. You judge us too harshly. As for 
Monsieur Leigh, his own good sense would preserve him 
against such an abominable piece of wickedness. ” 

The doctor laughed. ‘ ‘ Leigh is but like the rest of them, 
my child — artists have no shame.” 

“No woman,” retorted Madame Tholozan, “ who de- 
served the name, or who had the least trace of self-respect, 
would forgive the man who was guilty of such an act. ” 

“ Little Puritan,” said the doctor, and he kissed his 
young wife, “who knows, you may be right after all! ” 
And then he turned the gas out. 

Dr. Tholozan was a man of honor. He paid his 
tradespeople ; he would have scorned to take a mean 
advantage of any man ; nothing would induced him to 
open a letter which did not belong to him. But, alas ! 
he had the instinct of his profession, and he looked upon 
his young wife as a psychological study. It pleased 
him to read her soul as he would read an open book. To 
most of us, the means he adopted to do this would appear 
base ; to him they seemed but natural. We must remem- 
ber that he was a scientific man, an old man, a married 
man, and a Frenchman. 

He sat for some half an hour after his wife had retired, 
meditating before the fire in the cosy recess of the great 
studio ; and then he got up, lighted his bedroom candle, 
extinguished the lamp, and walked straight to his wife’s 
boudoir. With a key which was attached to his watch- 
chain he opened her little escritoire, and he took from it 
his wife’s diary, and calmly perused its latest entries. 
He replaced the book with a smile, relocked the escritoire, 
and then retired to rest, perfectly satisfied with himself 
and the world in general. 

It’s all very well to take to one’s bed in a huff. Hav- 


the fatal phryne. 


105 

ing- announced one’s intentions, there is a certain sort of 
solemnity in the act itself. It’s easy enough to go to bed, 
the difficulty is to remain there. Madame Pichon’s indigna- 
tion was still red-hot, but, alas ! so were her jealousy and her 
curiosity ; and she became suddenly awakened to the fact 
that though she might be punishing the gentleman by her 
continued absence — the man who had the bad taste to 
choose her cousin’s wife as his model in preference to her- 
self — yet by her sudden retreat she felt that she was but 
acknowledging her own defeat. What opportunities for 
stolen greetings, what chances of unforeseen rencontres 
and impromptu meetings, rendered possibly more danger- 
ous by the additional chance of their being iete-a-tete ! 
Madame Pichon was considerably exercised in her mind as 
to whether she would not be pursuing a wiser policy by 
reappearing once more upon the field. “ Out of sight, 
out of mind, ” is a well-known proverb. Somehow or 
other it singularly commended itself to the young widow 
just then. She had returned no answer to several little 
notes of inquiry which she had received from the doctors 
wife. Determined as she had been that she would deny her- 
self to the lady whom she looked upon as an unprincipled 
and successful rival, she now suddenly changed her tactics. 
She rang her bell sharply, and her maid appeared. 

“ Francine,” she said, “ I’m feeling better this morning. 
Should Madame Tholozan call, as she very possibly 
may, I shall be pleased to see her.” 

The woman manifested no surprise, though but a short 
half-hour before Madame Pichon had expressed her 
absolute determination to see no one but her cousin ; who 
of course, came in his professional capacity. 

“ Give me a hand-glass, Francine,” said Madame 
Pichon. She carefully examined her features in the mirror, 
and then she came to a sudden decision. Like the great 


io6 


THE FATAL PHRYNE, 


Napoleon, Madame Pichon's strategy was directed by 
flashes of genius. 

“ I shall get up at once, Francine,” she said; and she 
proceeded to do so. Her toilet was a rather long process, 
and the maid found her mistress most difficult to please 
that morning. She accused the maid of “ tugging" at her 
hair ; her complaints were many, and she was very exact- 
ing. When the entire process was complete she declared 
herself to be frightful and pale as a ghost. 

“Ah, Madame," said the girl, sympathizingly, “ Ma- 
dame’s illness has made terrible ravages. I trust Madame 
will not be displeased if I suggest a suspicion — the very 
slightest suspicion — of artificial color to her cheeks. " 

“Francine, if I were not so weak," said Madame 
Pichon, solemnly, “I would box your ears for daring to 
hint such a thing." 

“My late mistress ” began the maid, apologeti- 

cally. 

“Your late mistress was forty, if she was a day!" 
almost screamed the indignant invalid. “ No ; I will do 
better than that : give me the rose-colored tea-gown.” 

The order was obeyed, and Madame Pichon, having 
put on the dress, surveyed herself at all points in the great 
cheval glass. She was satisfied ; she felt that she was an 
adversary not to be despised, even by her cousin's beauti- 
ful wife. And she was quite right, for the pink became 
her, a flush of pleasure lighted up her cheek, and with a 
firm step she walked down to her boudoir, to await the 
arrival of Madame Tholozan. 

Nor was she disappointed. That lady shortly after- 
wards entered the room, seized both Madame Pichon’s 
hands, and would have embraced her ; but the widow 
kept her at arm’s length, and declined the proffered salute. 
Then she sank back once more into the pillowed lounge 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


107 

seat from which she had not risen, and applied a filmy 
lace handkerchief to her eyes. 

“ You've come to triumph over me, Helene, I suppose,” 
she said, solemnly. 

“ Don't be tragic, Sophie ; there need be no acting be^ 
tween us two. No, dear,” she went on, “I have come 
to sympathize with you. When you never answered my 
notes I became alarmed, till Felix reassured me. What 
has been the matter, Sophie dear ? ” 

“And you can sit there, Helbne, and have the effron- 
tery to ask me this?” said Madame Pichon. “Your 
machinations have proved successful, Helfene. Why did 
you come between us to take his affections from me ? I 
know everything,” the widow continued, in a bitter tone. 
“If it hadn't been for my loyalty to you I should have 
told Felix all.” 

“ I don't understand you, Sophie. I have been guilty 
of no treachery to you, and have done nothing to offend 
you knowingly. Why are you so strange ? How have I 
hurt you ? Tell me, I beg.” 

“ Helfene, you’re a hypocrite — a wicked, base, design- 
ing hypocrite. Why you persist in misunderstanding 
me, I cannot tell. I speak plainly enough. Knowing, 
as you know, the position in which George and I stood to 
one another ; knowing that we were lovers — though not 
affianced lovers — why have you abused your position as 
my cousin's wife, to dazzle him with your younger and 
fresher beauty ? Why have you taken his fickle heart 
from me ? Why have you robbed me of what once, alas, 
was mine — I mean his honest love ? It was base enough 
of you, if you love him as I believe you do ; still more 
wicked, if it was only for the sake of a miserable flirtation. 
You have succeeded in your wickedness only too well. 
I, who once inspired his genius, and reigned without a 


io8 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


rival in his heart, find myself now cast aside as a play- 
thing which has ceased to please. And why, forsooth ? 
In order that my cousin’s wife should amuse herself ! ” 

“Sophie, I think you must be mad. Your jealousy is 
ludicrous and absurd.” 

“Oh, of course I’m ludicrous and absurd in your eyes, 
Helbne. I know you laugh at me. That is what you 
always have done. Don’t imagine that I mind it. I 
don’t one little bit ! ” And Madame Pichon snapped her 
fingers. “But you have made me appear ridiculous in 
the eyes of George ; he has chosen you as his ideal. 
You, forsooth ! He confesses it ; he glories in it ; he pro- 
claims it from the very housetops ; and he is about to 
further advertise it to the whole Parisian world.” 

“ I am right, Sophie. You must indeed be mad.” 

“I’m drifting towards it, Helene. For the last four 
months our engagement has been patent to all my ac- 
quaintances. It was an understood thing, and there was 
nothing to be ashamed of. My cousin, who is my natural 
guardian, made no objection. The Barbier made it public 
property. Ever since I have known George Leigh, he 
has been looking for what in his artist’s jargon he calls 
his ideal, and he found it in me. When he painted the 
Niobe, he nobly acknowledged the fact to all the world. 
And then you came between us, Helene ; and the first 
few months of your wedded life have been devoted to steal- 
ing my lover from me, to taking from me the man who 
would have become my husband. And you have suc- 
ceeded but too well. ” And here Madame Pichon burst 
into a flood of genuine tears. 

“ Monsieur Leigh and I,” said Madame Tholozan with 
dignity, “have been thrown together by the force of cir- 
cumstances and my husband’s wish ever since my mar- 
riage. It was not for me, a young and inexperienced 


THE FATAL PHR YNE. 


109 

girl, to attempt to break through an arrangement which 
Felix informed me was a convenient one to all parties. 
Never has Monsieur Leigh breathed the slightest word of 
love to me ; never has there been anything clandestine 
between us. The frequent mysterious interviews to 
which you allude exist only in your own fevered and 
jealous imagination. Never has Monsieur Leigh shown 
the slighest penchant for me ; never have I had reason to 
suppose him other than the soul of honor. As to the 
ridiculous assertion that I am anything to him, or that I 
am what you are pleased to term his ‘ideal/ it is simply 
nonsense. ” 

‘ It is not nonsense, Helene ; it is the dreadful, horrid, 
wicked truth ; and you know it ! And your husband and 
I know it from George himself. He is not ashamed of 
it — not he ; and, as I say, he is about to proclaim it to all 
the world ! If my cousin did not possess the spirit of a 
George Dandin, he would revenge himself and me by 
treating my faithless lover as he deserves. ” 

“ Calm yourself, Sophie; you speak in riddles. When 
has Monsieur Leigh proclaimed to any one that I am his 
ideal ? Do you suppose that there is any analogy be- 
tween my husband and the miserable wretch to whom 
you have dared to compare him ? ” 

“ And you wish me to repeat the details of your con- 
temptible triumph, Madame ? You wish to hear me tell 
you that with my own eyes I saw him put the finishing 
touch to the hateful face of the principle figure of his 
picture which now shamelessly simpers at everybody who 
looks on it. Perhaps Madame Tholozan would pretend 
that the features of his Phryne are not hers, or that she is 
dissatisfied with them. No, Helfcne, I’ll do you both 
justice, she is your very self ; and, I repeat, your husband 
knows it, I know it, and George glories IX\ it ” 


I 10 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


“ Listen to me, Sophie, I don’t understand your mysti- 
fication. Not half an hour ago I saw the picture, and I 
stood before it with my husband, hand in hand. Do you 
think that Felix, even though he had been George Dandin 
himself, had the nude figure been my portrait, would have 
borne this thing and have calmly criticised it, and looked 
on it with approval ? ” 

“And you mean to say, Helene, that it is not like 
you ? ” 

“ There is not the faintest resemblance. George him- 
self declared only the other day that the face, which is 
a pretty one, and as like me as I’m like Julius Caesar, was 
but a composition.” 

“ Helene,” cried the widow, with a little scream of joy, 
“ is it really so ? Do you really mean it ! You are not 
trifling with me ? ” 

‘ ‘No indeed, Sophie, ” smiled Madame Tholozan through 
her tears. “ Why should I trifle with you ? ” 

“ Oh, what a weight from off my heart. But what a 
wicked joke for George to perpetrate on me. But you 
have forgiven me, Helene ? Say you have. And the 
wretch Felix left me to suppose him faithless. Men are 
very mean, my dear. Let us go to him, Helene. I can’t 
rest till I see George, and I shan’t be satisfied till I’ve had 
it out with that husband of yours.” 

Madame Pichon rang the bell impatiently, ordered her 
horses to be put to, and then hurried off to don an elegant 
morning costume and efface the traces of recent tears. 

The two friends were soon en route for the doctor’s 
house. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


Ill 


CHAPTER X. 

..elene’s diary. 

11 I didn’t believe that Sophie could be really angry and 
genuinely tragic till our very exciting interview at her 
house. Poor thing, it was cruel of George to have trifled 
with her feelings. And so he did me the honor to paint 
my poor face in, after all ! 

“ And my husband knew it, and never said a word. 

“ And now he teases me about it, and laughs at us both. 
He declares that it was very much against the grain in- 
deed, and only at his earnest entreaty that George effaced 
it ; and then he laughs all the more. Oh, if he could 
only have been just a little bit angry with him over the 
matter, just the tiniest bit in the world jealous, then I 
should have some faint hope that he was not indifferent 
to me. Why he hasn’t even the dreadful affection that 
Madame Pouilly possesses for her old slippers. But, 
then, perhaps we haven’t been married long enough for 
that. And why didn’t he tell me of it ? Simply because 
it was too trivial a matter to be worth noticing. 

“All to-day George has worked away at the face with his 
left arm in a sling, and now the picture is finished at last. 
But the artist has broken down, as my husband said he 
would, and the rheumatic fever he predicted has come 
upon him. All I can extract from Felix is that “he'll be 
worse before he’ll be better.” He's ill enough, Heaven 
knows, now, poor fellow ! And of course Madame Pichon 


I 12 


THE FALAL PHRYNE . 


has him entirely at her mercy, for she has announced her 
intention of nursing him herself, and to-morrow she is 
coming to stay here to carry out her programme. It is 
quite certain that she will marry him, and perhaps after 
all that’s the best thing that could happen to them both. 
In five days more the Salon will open, and the picture will 
be a success ; a gigantic success, or an equally gigantic 
failure. 

It was fast approaching midnight on the same evening 
that the above entry was made in the young wife’s diary. 
George Leigh was tossing uneasily in high fever in the 
bedroom adjoining the studio. The shaded lamp that 
lighted the room was so placed as to leave the sleeper in 
comparative darkness. Dr. Tholozan and his wife were 
seated on either side of the fireplace, and were talking in 
a low tone. 

“ Is it very serious ? Tell me, Felix, what you think,” 
said Helene. 

“ His youth is in his favor, my child,” said the doctor, 
wearily. “ There is not so much danger to his life, as the 
possibility that he may rise from his sick bed a compara- 
tively broken-down man. I think that is the worst we 
have to fear. ” 

“But he is in such pain, Felix. Can you do nothing 
for the pain ? ” 

“ I’ve done all I can, my child,” said the doctor. “ It’s 
getting late ; go and get a goodnight’s rest, my wife. We’ll 
have a professional nurse in in the morning, and then she 
and Sophie — if Sophie still insists upon it — can take turn 
and turn about.” 

“ Felix,” said Madame Tholozan, after a pause, “ let me 
sit up with you a little longer. I should like to do my 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


ll 3 


share of the nursing. You would wish it, too, would you 
not, Felix ? ” 

“ My dear, you are young and enthusiastic ; but in six 
weeks your enthusiasm will have had time to cool. There 
are twenty-four hours in every day, my child.” 

“Let me stay a little, Felix; let me stay a little,” 
pleaded his wife. “Poor fellow, how he tosses and mut- 
ters in his sleep ! ” 

“You would be better in bed, my friend,” said her hus- 
band, “far better. You may hear things that will distress 
you. A man in his condition is not responsible for what 
he says, and the night is his worst time.” 

And then the sick man began to speak rapidly, but his 
words were unintelligble at first. He spoke in French, for 
that had gradually become the language of his everyday 
life. Little by little his voice became louder, and it 
assumed an angry and argumentative tone. 

“You may say what you please, Duvivier; I've done 
my best, and a man can do no more/’ he muttered in 
querulous accents. “ It’s not a mere portrait. Of course 
it’s beautiful, and I knotv I can’t do her justice. Who 
could do her justice ? * It is but a base and malignant 
caricature, and yet it’s like her in a way. I’ve tried to 
catch her smile, that fleeting smile that goes to my very 
heart’s core. Love her ! Of course I love her. But 
she is not for me. Great God, she is not for me ! ” 

And then the sick man ran off into unintelligible mutter- 
ings. 

“I think I will go, Felix,” said the doctor’s wife. Her 
face was pale and there were tears upon it. 

“ No child, not yet,” said her husband, “ have patience 
a little while. I told you how it was, Helene ; you wished 
to stay for his sake ; now you must stop for mine. You’ve 
heard too much already, or not enough. Vous avez tire le 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


114 

vin, ttion enfant , il faut payer la bouteille , ” and the doctor 
grinned one of his most sardonic grins. His wife gave 
him an appealing look which was unanswered, and then 
sank back again hopelessly into her chair. 

Again the invalid began to speak ; this time in softer 
accents. 

“ You have a heart of stone, Helene," he said. “And 
you have not known that I have loved you, you tell me. 
You have not known it? Your husband is not so short- 
sighted. How was I to hide it ? How was I to keep the 
secret which has been consuming me for so long? Ma- 
dame Pichon has known it. Sophie has seen it all along. 
Ah, the misery and wickedness of my life in these short 
months. Can I look on calmly and see you, the woman 
I love with a furious passion of a first love, and tamely 
gaze on you as the wife of another? No, it is impossible. 
It is more than flesh and blood can bear. I know I am a 
miserable traitor. I know Pm a mean, contemptible hound. 
Say but the word, and I’ll bury myself from your sight for- 
ever. Say but that you are happy and contented, oh, 
my darling ! and I will hasten to that distant land from 
which there is no return. You don’t say it, Helene; you 
don’t take away your hand ; you don’t turn away those 
lovely eyes. Oh, my love, my love, let us fly. Speak 
to me.’’ 

Then there was a short silence. 

“ She has gone from me again. Wherever I turn, I see 
but mocking faces. Do you think I would sell myself, 
woman ?’’ continued the sick man roughly. “I'm base 
enough, God knows, but not base enough for that Fires ! ’’ 
screamed the raving man, “ they burn my very marrow. 
Oh, for a drop of water ! ’’ 

Dr. Tholozan rose, raised Leigh’s head carefully from the 
pillow, and applied a glass of lemonade to his lips. 


THE FATAL PHRYHE. 


XI 5 

“ Ah ! ’’ cried the sufferer with a groan of satisfaction, 
and then his ravings turned once more into unintelligible 
mutterings and broken phrases. 

“Have you heard enough, Helene? " said the doctor. 

“More than enough, Felix," replied his wife, and she 
hurried from the room. 

Till two hours past midnight the patient continued in a 
state of fevered delirium, and for that time Dr. Tholozan 
patiently smoothed his pillow, and moistened his poor 
parched lips with just the same tender care and affection 
that a mother might show to a favorite child. Then he 
took a little metal case from his pocket, and thrust the tiny 
glass tube which he took from it between the patient’s un- 
resisting lips. He held it there for several seconds, and 
then he went with it to the lamp, and looked at the reading 
of the mercury within it with professional gravity. Then 
he returned the thermometer to its case, and replaced it 
in his pocket. Then he lowered the lamp and went back 
to his seat at the fireside. 

“ I wonder how it will end ? ’’ said the doctor to him- 
self : “ Helene’s presence here will only fan the flame. 
What right have I to subject the child to an ordeal such 
as this ? And yet I might have had the sense to know 
that it must end so. I fear the engineer is hoisted with 
his own petard ; and yet, after all, it’s a very interesting 
psychological experiment. I don’t know that in all my 
long experience I have met with a more instructive case, 
and if I were a younger man I should be furiously jealous. 
And yet it’s not their fault, poor fools, but mine. And 
now the murder is out. One thing is certain, Madame 
Pichon will have her hands full. I begin to wish that I 
hadn't gone down to Banquerouteville after all ; it was a 
sudden and stupid impulse. I have succeeded in raising 
the devil, when I least expected it. If my young friend 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


1 1 6 

had been like the ordinary run of young men he would 
have married Sophie and her money-bags long ago ; and 
so he would have but for me. It’s all my fault, and 
Sophie has very little to thank me for. Bah ! we must 
hope for the best. He may marry Sophie out of gratitude 
yet, after all ; and the savings of the late Monsieur Pichon 
are not such a very nauseous pill. But artists are an im- 
possible race. Yes, I ought to have been jealous, and I 
should be jealous, too, if I were not a just man. What 
affair of mine is it, that this young fellow who has become 
to me as a son, and wormed himself into my heart — or, 
what I’m pleased to call my heart, for want of a better 
term — what is it to me that he should sigh in vain for the 
penniless girl I was dolt enough to make my wife ? If his 
affection was reciprocated, jealousy would be almost forced 
upon me, or I should at once become ridiculous and con- 
temptible to myself. But it is not so, for the key of the 
girl’s heart is at my disposition ; her diary tells me the 
very working of her soul. Besides, in his raging delirium 
he merely utters the unrestrained passions of the madman, 
the better qualities of his mind are almost dormant, while 
his imagination is fired and his baser passions stirred. 
Were he himself, his honest soul would have strength to 
say, Vade retro Sathanas ; as it is, his imagination has 
dwelt upon his picture while searching for a peerless type 
of beauty : unluckily for me, he seems to have found it 
in my wife. But, then, that as a rule is the common lot 
of mortals. They always do find their peerless types in 
other men’s wives, and unfortunately the husbands are 
often unaware of the value of the priceless treasures they 
possess, untill they are either carried off or, like riches, 
take unto themselves wings and fly away of their own 
accord. ” 

“ I think,” said the doctor to himself, meditatively, “that 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


IX 7 

vanity is but very slightly developed in Helene. Upon 
my life, I don't believe she knows how beautiful she is. 
Why any other woman would have been all agog with 
pleasure to hear that Leigh had even thought of her fea- 
tures as the perfection of earthly loveliness, and it doesn't 
seem to have affected her one bit. When I told her that 
the young fellow was madly in love with her she actually 
wouldn’t believe it. She knows it now, however ; and, 
what is more, was deeply moved. That was plain enough 
by the tears upon her face, and only a little while before 
she had insisted that it was her duty to take a share in 
nursing him. You’re a strange youth, George Leigh ; 
you have made mad love to my wife in my very presence, 
and yet you are as innocent of the fact as a little child. 
Not an hour ago you were telling her how you loved and 
idolized her ; it was the real George Leigh who spoke 
then. Iy a few hours, when you meet, you will have put 
on your cloak of modesty and prudence ; you will have 
become once more the discreet young Englishman, a very 
Joseph, still thinking that your secret is your own. And 
how will she bear it, poor child ? Better for her if she 
paid a short visit to that female philosopher, Madame 
Pouilly ; better for me, perhaps ; certainly better for him, 
very much better for poor Sophie. But then, what would 
the voice of scandal say ! And the Barbier, that oracle 
would certainly speak again. Helfene will have to go 
through with it ; she must face the ordeal ; the lady’s ten- 
der feet must walk over the red-hot ploughshares as of 
old. Yes, in this nineteenth century we have still the trial 
by fire. 

“And if he should die — ah, poor young fellow, if he 
should die — which of us would feel it most, she or I ? I 
who look upon him as my son, or she who knows from 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


Il8 

his own lips that he loves her with the burning passion of 
a first love ? ” 

The cold gray light of early morning was gradually be- 
ginning to break through the dim shadows of the sick 
man’s room from under the Venetians. The noise of the 
traffic in the streets, which had almost ceased since mid- 
night, began little by little to recommence. The doctor 
looked at his watch, and saw that it was between five and 
six o’clock. The sick man lay in a heavy dreamless sleep 
of utter exhaustion. Then Dr. Tholozan arose and turned 
the lamp out altogether ; he placed more wood upon the 
fire, drew his chair nearer to it, and composed himself to 
rest Gradually his lids closed over his fiery eyes ; and 
the only soul in the great house who did not sleep or dream 
was the young wife, who tossed uneasily upon her pillow. 
She had lain awake thinking over the exciting events of 
the last few hours ; overcome by her feelings, # she had 
hurried from the sick man’s room. Never till now had 
Madame Tholozan felt thoroughly and utterly miserable. 
When she was a friendless ofphan at the Villa de Tour- 
terelles, she had been a careless happy girl. Still, a happy 
girl, she had been introduced to the realities of life under 
sufficiently favorable auspices. The gilded cage in the 
doctor’s great house had been a pleasant prison, and the 
bars had been invisible. She had felt a sort of affectionate 
camaraderie for her husband and his cousin, much the 
same sort of feeling that she had for those fellow school- 
girls who were of her own age, for those among them who 
were her friends. When she had ceased to address the 
doctor as her guardian, and spoke to him as mon ami \ the 
words exactly expressed her sentiments ; she had honestly 
come to look on him as her friend, the best friend she had 
in the world. As to George Leigh, he had interested her ; 
his youth, his good looks, his very profession, and their 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


XI 9 

constant intercourse all contributed to the result. Then, 
too, he was the first young man with whom she had 
been brought in contact. The young artist had been a 
frequent subject, a pleasant hero, on whom her imagina- 
tion had often dwelt, and this was but natural. The little 
drama of love and jealousy that had been played before 
her eyes, as a sort of duologue between him and Madame 
Pichon, had been a pastoral which at the same time puz- 
zled and amused her. She had wished Sophie Pichon well 
from the bottom of her heart. Every good woman is a 
match-maker, and nothing would have pleased Helene 
more then to have seen the pair united. She had looked 
upon the doctors eccentric theory that the artist admired 
her as mere badinage, a foolish fancy not in the best of 
taste ; she*was annoyed at it a little, perhaps, but it had 
not troubled her mind, nor gratified her pride, nor caused 
her pulse to quicken. 

But now all was changed. It was almost with horror 
that she had listened in silence to the burning words of 
the man who loved her. Had he not told her that her hus- 
band knew of his love, and had not Madame Pichon's idle 
talk confirmed the fact ? The sick man had declared that 
she was his first and only love ; he had told her that he 
was ready to die for her, and he had even urged her to 
fly with him. That was bad enough ; but he had also 
told her that she was cruel and heartless. Alas, poor 
child ! it was beginning to dawn upon her that what he 
had called her stony heart was unhappily but too human 
after all. In the darkness that surrounded her she felt the 
guilty blush of shame mount upon her innocent cheek as 
she communed with her conscience, and found that she 
could not deny its dreadful accusation. But she deter- 
mined to struggle bravely against herself. 

“I should be stony-hearted indeed,” she thought, “If I 


120 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


did not sympathize with, and pity the poor fellow Suddenly 
stricken down upon a bed of pain, just at the very mo- 
ment when it was almost certain that he was just about to 
reap the reward of his successful labors, and attain the 
pinnacle of a well-earned fame. It is but natural, and I 
should be indeed a disgrace to my sex if I were to deny 
him my sympathy. But we cannot go on as we have 
been doing. If George’s real feelings to me are those he 
has expressed in the ravings of his illness he must master 
and overcome them. And he will do so, whatever the 
effort may cost him ; for he is a gentleman, and my hus- 
band’s friend.” 

And then she ran over in her memory their many inter- 
views and pleasant conversations before the great canvas, 
their happy, cheerful talks ; and she felt an honest satisfac- 
tion that there had been never an idle word between them, 
that she had breathed no syllable that she would have 
blushed to utter in her husband’s presence, and that no 
thought of wrong or harm had ever entered her guileless 
mind. There had been no idea of love, not the remotest 
semblance of even a flirtation. Playing with fire had 
never entered into her mind. As she ran back over the 
pages of her memory, she remembered that the only allu- 
sions to the little god had been made when she had hon- 
estly pleaded Sophie’s cause. 

“ When George recovers, ’’she thought, “he must leave 
us ; he must take a studio in a more fashionable quarter 
and then — and then he must marry Sophie.” And sud- 
denly, despite himself, she once more felt the hot blush 
mantle her innocent cheek. “Ah, but,” thought the girl 
to herself, “if the dreadful words he uttered so short a 
time ago were the real expression of his feelings, he will 
never marry her. He said he would never sell himself ; 
his very words seem yet to ring in my ears. And if he 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


121 


should, die ” and a cold thrill of horror ran through 

the young wife’s heart, “oh, if he should die. Is he to 
go down into the grave with the dreadful secret which he 
thinks untold, without one look of pity, one word of sym- 
pathy to gratify his yearning heart ? Yes, it must be so, 
horrible though it is. But Heaven is merciful ; ” and 
then she flung herself upon her knees and prayed for the 
man she loved. 

There are some things that are almost too sacred to be 
described in words. Madame Tholozan remained upon 
her knees before the little ivory crucifix which had been 
her wedding present from the dearest of her school friends. 
Her prayer had been answered, whatever may have been 
its nature, for there was a happy smile upon her beautiful 
and innocent face as she rose. And then she lay down 
once more, and soon she sank into a peaceful slumber. 
Probably her thoughts, which now had ceased to be 
under her own control, were wandering round the future 
of the hero of her dreams. In her dreams she could 
roam, all unforbidden, in the happy land of imagination 
whithersoever her thoughts might guide her willing steps. 
It must have been a sunny land in some very pleasant 
place, for there was a smile of pleasure upon the slightly 
parted lips, arched like the bow of the God of Love, of the 
dreaming girl. Probably most of us have passed some of 
the happiest hours of our lives in happy dreamland. 

She made a pretty picture, as she lay, her head pillowed 
upon her rounded arm, her sleeping face framed in the 
dead gold of the dishevelled masses of her waving luxur- 
iant locks. J ust the same scene that was enacted years ago 
in Ferrara, which Byron has described in rhythmic numbers, 
was now enacted in the house with the great porte-cochere 
in the unfashionable quarter of modern Paris. The door 
of the room softly opened, and Dr. Tholozan entered, as 


122 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


though fearful to disturb his wife's slumbers. He gazed 
upon her long and earnestly, carefully shading her eyes 
from the light of the candle-lamp which he carried in his 
hand. He saw the flitting smiles upon her face, placed 
the light upon the dressing-table, sank wearily into the 
big easy-chair, and then he shook his head. 

“ Poor child, poor child," he said. 

Then there was silence. 


THE FATAL PHR YNE % 


1 23 


CHAPTER XI. 

A fortnight passed. “Phryne before the Tribunal" 
had gone to the Salon. It had been accepted as a matter 
of course. Sister Brigitte had appeared upon the scene, 
and Sister Brigitte had worked like a horse. How she man- 
aged to make six hours’ sleep suffice, taken in two doses 
of three hours each, during the twenty-four hours, it is dif- 
ficult to say. Then, too, Sister Brigitte insisted upon 
fasting on the regulation days into the bargain. It used 
to puzzle the invalid how his kindly nurse got into her 
great starched head-dress of white linen. Then he used 
to wonder whether she slept in it, and whether she ever 
took it off. Whenever he woke there was Sister Brigitte, 
and the great starched head-gear was always as spotlessly 
white as ever, and the sister, always wide awake, was ever 
ready to do the sick man’s bidding, and attend to his thou- 
sand and one little wants. She administered the medi- 
cines, she registered the patient’s temperature, and as the 
poor fellow became weaker and unable to move in the 
bed, having grown helpless as an infant, she would alter 
his position, moving him as gently and without difficulty, 
feeding him from a little china vessel which looked like a 
doll’s teapot, and was, in fact, a sort of second mother to 
the unhappy young man. When he was unable to sleep 
Sister Brigitte would produce a little black, much-thumbed 
volume of “The Lives of the Saints.’’ As Sister Brigitte 
said, it was a very soothing book. Whether there was 


124 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


something- soporific about its contents, or whether the fact 
that Sister Brigitte adopted a peculiar method of reading it 
to her patients was the cause, it is impossible to say, but 
“ The Lives of the Saints ” in Sister Brigitte's hands, were 
more efficacious than poppy or mandragora or all the 
drowsy syrups of the world. Sister Brigitte’s system was 
an original one. When she thought it good that the 
patient should sleep she would suddenly remark: “If 
monsieur has no objection, there is a little passage I 
should like to read to him,” and out came the little black 
fat book, and Sister Brigitte would begin at a good round 
pace. She always opened the book haphazard, and she 
always began at the top paragraph of the left-hand page. 
She went steadily on, perfectly regardless of punctuation. 
Ever and anon she would fling a hasty glance at the patient, 
and as soon as she perceived the desired effect was being 
produced, she used to “ slow down ” gradually. 

The happiest times of the sick man’s day were the earlier 
part of the afternoons and the evenings, for Sister Brigitte 
would then retire, and Madame Pichon or Dr. Tholozan, 
or Dr. Tholozan’s wife, one or the other, or all of them, 
invariably sat with him. 

All three were in the room whence they had adjourned 
immediately after dinner. 

“ Where do you think we’ve been this afternoon, 
George ?” said Madame Pichon with sparkling eyes. 

“I can guess,” said the sick man ; but there was no 
answering smile upon his face. “ You needn’t trouble 
to break it gently to me,” he continued. “I can bear it. 
It is, as I expected, a failure. ” 

“Let me tell him,” said Madame Pichon pleadingly. 
“ It will do him good, and I do so love to be the bearer of 
good news. George,” she went on, and there was 
triumph in her tone, “we went to the private view at the 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


I2 5 

Salon as you supposed. The ‘ Phryne ’ is the picture of 
the year. It is hung in the very best place, exactly where 
the ‘ Dame au Perroquet ’ was hung last year, and the 
men, while we were there, were putting up a big semi- 
circular rail to keep the crush of gazers off it. Every one 
says that it is the picture of the year, and it was with 
difficulty that we could get near it at all. Oh, Pm so glad, 
George, so glad ! ” And the happy woman, who always 
wept on the slightest possible provocation, pressed her 
handkerchief to her eyes. 

“It's quite true, George,” said the doctor, “ you've 
hit the nail on the head this time. And the best 
proof of it was, that as soon as we got into the 
building I was pounced upon by your old patron Mon- 
sieur Israels. ‘ I must see my dear young friend at once,' 
said he, ‘ if its only to protect him against the other rascals 
who will try to swindle him out of it. When can I see him, 
doctor? To-night? To-morrrow ? Only tell me when I 
can see him.' But I explained to him your illness. All to 
no purpose ; he wouldn't go. He clung to me like a leech. 
‘I did the trick for him, you know, doctor,’ he continued. 

• I and the Barbier between us. Why should he sulk with 
me ? ' And it was only by promising him that he should 
have the first chance, as soon as you were able to see any 
one on business, that I succeeded in shaking him off. 
And then he sent you a message. * Look at that,’ he said, 
and he clutched my arm, ‘ look at that ! ' and he pointed 
out to me a stout Hebrew matron covered with jewelry, 
who was weeping bitterly by herself in a corner of the 
gallery. ‘Tell him, my good doctor,' he said, ‘that lady 
is my wife ; tell him you have seen her ! She has never 
stopped crying, my dear doctor, since she has seen my 
portrait. Your young friend has been very hard on me, 
Dr. Tholozan.' So I promised you should see him as 


126 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


soon as you were better, and I got rid of him at last. ” 

A smile of amusement ran over the artist’s haggard 
face. “ I’ve been luckier than I deserve,” he said. ‘ ‘ Did 
you speak to any of the critics, doctor ? ” he continued 
anxiously. 

“ Oh, yes,” said the doctor, “ they were full of kind in- 
quiries. I suppose they wanted to add a few lines about 
the health of the sick lion, for by to-morrow morning you 
will be a lion, George, and with a very big mane and tail 
of your own, too, for the matter of that. There was no 
doubt, my boy, which way the wind blew ; everybody 
talked about the ‘ Phryne,’ and of nothing else. Was it 
not so, Helene ? ” he asked, turning to his wife. 

“It seemed so to me, Felix,” replied Madame Tholozan. 
“Yes; everybody was pleased.” 

“ And now let’s talk of something else,” said the doctor, 
assuming his professional tone. “We shall only upset 
our young friend if we excite him any further. Let us 
make the most of our time, for in an hour Sister Brigitte 
will come and turn us out remorselessly. ” 

The bulk of the conversation that ensued was kept up 
by Madame Pichon. The fair widow described the toil- 
ettes, and insisted upon the fact that none of the celebrities 
of the day were conspicuous by their absence. As for 
Madame Tholozan, she hardly spoke at all. Truth to tell, 
she had become very silent lately, but the bright steel 
needle with which she was netting a long old-fashioned 
silk purse for her husband’s use flashed rapidly through the 
meshes of the crimson silk. 

The sick man’s eye rested mechanically upon her pen- 
sive face, and watched the busy movements of her pretty 
hands. Though she did not express it in words, yet 
somehow or other George Leigh felt assured of the satis- 
faction she felt in his triumph ; he knew instinctively that 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


1 27 


her heart was too full for words. But the artist was very 
weak ; the excitement of the certainty of his success soon 
caused his lids to close, and the doctor’s warning finger 
imperiously stopped the commencement of another volu- 
ble speech from Sophie Pichon. 

The painter’s dreams were happy ones, for smiles con- 
tinually appeared upon his wan countenance. 

His three friends sat in silence by his bed side until the 
figure of Sister Brigitte, who noiselessly entered the room, 
warned them that it was getting late ; and then they all 
quietly rose, and with a farewell glance at the sleeping 
invalid left the sick man’s room in silence. 

***** 

Assuredly had Dr. Tholozan’s young wife ever dreamt 
that any other eye than her own would have perused the 
pages of the little dainty red Morocco volume which she 
kept locked up in her escritoire, she would have been 
more careful in the entries which she made. Far better 
had it been for her if she had contented herself with pour- 
ing the story of her life’s romance into the discreet ears of 
some religious director, whose lips, at all events, would 
have been sealed. But habits grow on us. The mere 
placing on record of her own feverish emotions and their 
frequent reperusal acted but as fuel to the flame of her im- 
agination. Somehow or other, she had made up her 
mind that George Leigh’s illness would terminate fatally. 
What she would have never acknowledged to a confessor, 
with the proverbial imprudence of her sex, she did not 
hesitate to place on record in the fatal pages of the little 
red covered book. And day by day, as she detailed the 
inmost struggles of her secret soul, she was unknowingly 
also feeding the flame of her husband’s jealousy. For jeal- 
ousy, which hitherto had been a stranger to the doctor’s 
breast, had now established itself firmly, and the passion, of 


128 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


which he honestly believed himself incapable, had soon al- 
together mastered his determined spirit The interesting 
psychological experiment, which he had deliberately com- 
menced as a sort of pastime, had now ceased to amuse, and 
had actually begun to frighten him. It may be very good 
fun little by little to build up a monster of one’s own crea- 
tion, as did the unfortunate Frankenstein in the romance ; it 
may be a wondrous triumph to breathe the breath of life 
into the monster’s limbs ; but it is a very awkward thing 
indeed when one finds that the being of one’s own crea- 
tion is more powerful than oneself, and that one is but as 
a child in its gigantic grasp. 

Dr. Tholozan, then, was eaten up by a furious unrea- 
soning jealousy. When he had calmly suggested to 
his young wife that he had not the slightest objection to 
a possible mutual liking between herself and Leigh, 
and had coolly proposed that the young people in such 
a case should placidly await his own decease, he had 
spoken advisedly. For Dr. Tholozan was well aware, 
in addition to his sixty-one years of age, that he suffered 
from a terrible complaint which might at any moment 
hurry him into the presence of his Maker. It had seemed 
reasonable enough to him that he could scarcely desire 
a better fate for the girl he cared for with a father’s love 
than to become the wife of a man whom he liked and 
respected. In his mind’s eye he saw no objection to 
gradually watching their mutual liking grow into affec- 
tion, affection that was sooner or later certain to ripen 
into love. We all remember how Jack sowed the bean 
one night, and we know how great was his astonish- 
ment the next morning when he saw that particularly 
fast growing climber already piercing the clouds. Now 
Dr. Tholozan much resembled Jack. He, too, had 
sown his bean carelessly, just as Jack had done ; and, 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


129 


like Jack, he was genuinely astonished at its rapid 
growth, and he was by no means prepared for the abun- 
dant crop of troubles which that bean of his was now 
certain to produce. Dr. Tholozan, we know, was a 
strong-minded man, but the passion of curiosity was 
fierce within him. Like the dram-drinker, he could not 
refrain from his daily dose of poison : the daily peep 
into the secret recesses of his young wife’s heart. What 
he read in the little book was hardly calculated to reas- 
sure him. Had he been a weaker-minded man, or a 
few years younger, he would have separated the youth- 
ful pair when his suspicions became first aroused. He 
knew full well that there is nothing more likely to feed 
the furious flame of an infatuated woman’s affection 
than the fact of misfortune to its object. Prudent pater- 
familias knows perfectly well that if his daughter should 
take an unfortunate fancy to some peculiarly ineligible 
young fellow, that the fact of his failing to pass his ex- 
aminations, or his becoming a bankrupt, or his forging 
a check, will instantly surround him with a halo of 
romance. What he read then did not surprise him, 
but it had the effect of making him excessively angry. 
Till now the entries in the diary, having reference to 
young Leigh, had been few and far between. Since 
the commencement of Leigh’s illness the records in the 
traitorous little volume seemed to speak of nothing else. 
They had previously been a credit to Madame Pouilly’s 
establishment in the matter of penmanship, now the writ- 
ing was often hurried and almost illegible, and recently 
the pages had been blotted with the traces of what must 
have been tears. 

It was evident enough to the doctor that his wife 
looked upon George Leigh as a doomed man. Probably 
from this very fact, Helene, feeling, as she did, that the 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


130 

artist had almost ceased to belong to this world, gave 
free vent to her sympathy, her imagination, and — the 
word must be written — her love for the man she supposed 
to be dying. The result of this was that Dr. Tholozan 
was as thoroughly jealous as if he had been forty years 
younger, and yet he felt that he could scarcely blame 
either of them. He noted, with a smile, that the hopes 
as to Madame Pichon’s chance of future happiness were 
no longer expressed. And the doctor, now that the steed 
was stolen, began to make prudent resolutions about lock- 
ing the stable door. 

Now, had Dr. Tholozan arrived at the same conclusion 
as his wife with regard to the probable termination of the 
artist’s illness, matters for him would have been consid- 
erably simplified. George Leigh being dead, his loss 
would have been mourned for a longer or a shorter period 
by the ladies of the doctor s family ; and then naturally, 
in the ordinary course of things, he would have been for- 
gotten. But Dr. Tholozan well knew that the young 
fellow possessed a splendid constitution. He reasoned, 
then, that his recovery, bar accidents, was only a ques- 
tion of time ; hence it seemed to him that the only escape 
from the position of ridicule and absurdity, to which he 
had the very strongest objection, was an engagement be- 
tween the artist and his cousin. He knew that the most 
eager sportsman is not generally the most successful. 
He gave Sophie Pichon credit for many a determined effort, 
but he felt sure that as his wife’s predilection for his pa- 
tient became more pronounced, it must ultimately be per- 
ceived by the sick man himself, and then Madam Pichon’s 
chance would be gone forever. “If,” thought this old 
medical fox, “Sophie has failed to captivate George by 
her money or by her good looks when he was in good 
health, and she has got no nearer to her object by work- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


3 * 


ing on his feelings when he is sick, there is no earthly 
reason why I shouldn't attempt to bring the fickle youth 
to book, and so give her a helping hand. Still," thought 
he, “it will be better to ascertain at once whether she 
really has made any progress, and then to act according- 
ly. Anyhow, I will see that she has a fair field." With 
this intention the doctor packed his wife off to pay a visit 
of ceremony in the environs of Paris, which would cer- 
tainly take up the whole of the afternoon ; and he retired 
to his study on her departure, having left word that imme- 
diately Madame Pichon arrived, he wished to see her for 
a few minutes. He had not long to wait. Within the 
course of half an hour his study door was flung open, 
and Madam Pichon was announced. 

“ Sit down, Sophie," said the doctor formally; “I want 
to talk with you." 

“Oh, Felix,” cried the widow as she sank into a chair. 
“Is it about George ? " 

“Yes, it is," replied her cousin. 

“ Felix," cried Madame Pichon, starting up instantly, 
“don’t say he’s going to die. He is not worse ? Great 
heaven ! He is not worse ? " 

“Pish," said the doctor impatiently, “don’t pose, So- 
phie. You’re always posing. Nobody in this wicked 
world ever got on by posing, my dear. Do you mind 
telling me, seriously, — if it is possible for you to be seri- 
ous, — what your intentions are with regard to young 
Leigh? In short, Sophie," added the doctor brutally, 
“do you mean to marry him, or do you not ? ’’ 

“ Felix, I’m ashamed of you," said the widow. 

“ Fiddlestick," replied her cousin. “At my age, So- 
phie Pichon, I haven't time to beat about the bush. 
Come to the point at once, my dear. If you’re engaged 
to marry George Leigh you're daily visits here are per- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


132 

fectly natural ; if not, you're only compromising yourself 
unnecessarily.” 

“ Compromising myself,” burst in the widow indig- 
nantly, “compromising myself! Look nearer home, 
Felix.” 

The doctor paled at the thrust. “ It’s no use fencing 
with me,” he said, “I have always been your friend. Try 
and be honest and candid for once in your life. Again I 
say,” he continued, and he struck the table fiercely with 
his fist, “ do you want to marry young Leigh, or don’t 
you r 

“ Of course I do, Felix,” she replied with a sob, “ and 
you know it perfectly well. And so I should have done,” 
she continued indignantly, “ long ago, — yes, long ago,” 
she added energetically, “ If you hadn’t permitted Madame 
Tholozan to come between us, and ruin the happiness of 
our lives. Do you suppose for one instant, Felix, that 1 
would have sat for hours to that young man if I hadn’t 
meant to marry him? Ah, it was all plain sailing,” she 
said sadly, “till you brought Helene back with you. My 
cup of happiness was full till she dashed it from my thirsty 
lips.” 

“Don’t pose, Sophie, I tell you again,” interrupted the 
doctor. “Your talk sounds like quotations from the 
dramas of the Porte St. Martin.” 

“That’s exactly how it has been since Helene came 
here; just like, as you say, a drama of the Porte St. Mar- 
tin, only I’m afraid I am no nearer to the happy denoue- 
ment. That’s being candid, I hope, candid enough even 
for you, Felix.” 

“Then you have failed altogether, I take it, in bringing 
him to book ? Has it dawned upon you, Sophie, that it is 
possible for a lady to render herself ridiculous ? Does 
what you are pleased to call your mind fail to perceive 


THE PA TAL PHRYNE. 


133 

that a woman who nas once made herself ridiculous by 
her pursuit of a man ceases to have any chance ? If it is 
not so, it is time you awakened to that fact. ” 

“I can only repeat, Felix, what I said before at the 
risk of displeasing you. When you talk about becoming 
ridiculous, Felix, take my advice, and look nearer home.” 

But the doctor took no notice of her remark. 

“You will have one more chance, Sophie; have it out 
with him to-day. If you two can arrange it between you, 
well and good. If not, my dear, your visits here must 
cease at once. You’re no longer a child, Sophie, but you 
must be protected against the results of your own im- 
prudence.” 

“Cousin Felix,” said the widow, with a laugh, “that’s 
very much like what the pot said to the kettle.” 

“ Never mind the pot and the kettle, Sophie ; or, if you 
prefer to look upon it in that light, you may take it from 
me that the pot means what it says.” 

“ Then you seriously suggest, Felix, that I am to go to 
this young man’s sick bed and ask him to marry me ? 
That, I suppose, is the long and short of it.” 

“You divine my meaning exactly, Sophie ; that is the 
long and short of it. It’s the best thing for both of you.” 

“ It would be unfair, Felix, unfair to him.” 

“Desperate diseases require desperate remedies, my 
dear,” said the doctor, with a bow. “Yours I fear is a 
very bad case.” 

“Thanks, Dr. Tholozan,” said the widow, with a 
smile. 

“ Do you know I mean you well ? ” he continued more 
gently. “Have I ever stood in your way, or interfered 
with you in the slightest degree, through all the weary 
phases of your long flirtations with my young friend ? 
Not a bit of it ! Take heart of grace, Sophie,” he said. 


134 


THE FATAL FHRVJVE. 


“You are a very pretty woman. My dear, it's now or 
never with you. George persists in supposing that he is 
not long for this world. You will have him all to your- 
self, and observe, my child, he can't run away. I don't 
think you’re deficient in pluck, Sophie. When you entered 
yourself in the race of which the hand of the late Monsieur 
Pichon was the prize, you distanced all your competitors > 
you won easily, hands down. You were first, the rest 
nowhere. Think of your former triumph, my dear. As 
my young friend would say, harden your heart, sit well 
down in your saddle, and go in and win." 

“Ah," said Madame Pichon with a little sigh as she 
looked in the mirror and adjusted her chestnut tresses with 
a careful hand, “ I was two years younger then, Felix." 

‘ ‘ Preserve your airs and graces for George, my dear. 
I keep my small stock of compliments for Helene. As I 
said before, George is ill and weak, and that is in your 
favor." 

“Felix," said Madame Pichon theatrically, “I will do 
violence to my own feelings ; it is unfair and unwomanly, 
I know, but I will sacrifice myself. But remember this, 
Dr. Tholozan, I do it to preserve you and Helene from 
the consequences of your own miserable folly and indis- 
cretion." 

“Sophie, don't " 

But before Dr. Tholozan could finish the sentence Ma- 
dame Pichon was on her way to the sick man’s room. 

Very possibly Sister Brigitte had received a hint from 
the doctor, very possibly not But instead of pottering 
about in an aimless sort of way, as was her usual custom 
before she left her patient, she addressed Madame Pichon 
with a smile, and said, “ My patient is better to-day, 
madame. The descriptions of the boiling to death of St. 
Maxentius has had a most gratifying effect. Indeed, it 


THE FATAL PILRYNE . 


135 

produced a natural and healthy sleep. In fact, dear 
madame, I have noticed that it always has that blessed 
result. But we are a little low to-day, madame. You 
will do your best to cheer us, will you not ? ” Sister 
Brigitte smiled upon Leigh and his visitor, nodded to both 
of them, and left the room. 

Madame Pichon returned the smile and the nod, and then 
she dropped into the big arm-chair at the bedside, and 
turned to the sick man with a loving look. “I don’t 
wonder you’re depressed, George. I once looked into 
the sister’s little book, and it frightened me. But then 
I’m so easily frightened,” she continued, with a sigh. 
“Oh, George,” she added sentimentally, “ I shall be so 
happy when you’re able to get to work once more. I 
wonder whether the old happy days will ever come back 
to us ? ” 

“I don’t believe I shall do any more work, Madame 
Pichon ; something tells me that there is an end to my 
dreams of ambition.” 

“George, you’re morbid,” said his visitor. “You 
have attained success. Try to look at things more 
brightly. I know the world, and, believe me, everything 
is before you now. You have conquered Fate ; you have 
become a celebrity. Wealth, honors, social standing — 
everything is within your grasp, George Leigh, and then 
” and Madame Pichon’s voice faltered, “you will for- 
get us,” she added in a softer tone. “It is the way of the 
world ; you will forget us,” and she looked at the young 
man with swimming eyes. 

Had her cousin been present he would probably have 
growled out, “ Don’t pose, Sophie ; ” but if she was posing 
Madame Pichon was posing very naturally, and indeed, 
the attitude became her, as she very well knew. Is it to 
be wondered at that the sick man thought so too ? 


THE FATAL FHRVATE. 


136 

A pretty woman who attitudinizes for a gentleman’s 
especial benefit is a pleasant object even to the most blase 
eye, and it was but natural that the young artist should 
look at her with a grateful smile. ‘ ‘ I shall never forget 
my kind friends in this house, Madame Pichon,” he said, 
“or the happy hours I’ve spent here. Alas! they are 
gone by, and perhaps we shall never have such pleasant 
days again, ” he added regretfully. 

“Our destinies are in our own hands,” said Madame 
Pichon softly. 

There was a long pause. 

In that short interval Madame Pichon came to a de- 
termination ; she burnt her ships, she formed her plan, 
and she determined to risk her fortune in one supreme 
effort. “ George,’ 4 she said, “ I’ve come to bid you good- 
bye.” She said it in just the sort of tone she might have 
used had she been announcing her instant execution. 

“To say good-bye?” said the artist with wondering 
eyes. “ It’s very sudden. Are you leaving Paris ?” 

“Yes, Monsieur Leigh , m said the lady, “I’m leaving 
Paris : not by my own wish ; far from it. I had once 
fondly hoped, George, that things would have been dif- 
ferent, but Felix is my guardian, and to his wishes I am 
compelled to bow. And he is right, Monsieur Leigh. 
Only this morning he said to me, ‘Sophie, your visits 
here must cease.' I was astonished and bewildered. 

‘ Have I offended you, Felix ? ’ I asked him. ‘ Not in the 
least, my child,’ said he, with the paternal air he habitu- 
ally assumes when he is going to say something particu- 
larly unpleasant. Alas, mon ami ! ” she went on, “Felix 
knows everything. He declares that my visits here com- 
promise me ; he says that our names have been coupled 
together in the public prints, and you will recollect that it 
was so, George. Why should I not speak plainly to you 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


137 

now ? Blind as he has been till now, Felix is at last 
awake to your terrible infatuation for his wife.” 

The artist’s pale face was suddenly suffused by a deep 
blush. 

“ Don’t tell me it is not so, George ; I have seen it from 
the first ; it has been but too apparent to me ever since 
my happy life was darkened by her hateful presence. 
And now my cousin tells me that my visits here must 
cease. ‘If,’ said he, ‘you were engaged to be married 
to this man, well and good. Only tell me that it is so, 
and I’ve no objection to make/ What could I say, 
George? My heart was almost breaking. ‘Let me bid 
him farewell,’ I pleaded. ‘Let me see him for the last 
time.’ I succeeded at last in wringing from him a reluc- 
tant consent. George, ” she said, as she took his wasted 
hand in both her own, and gazed into his face with hun- 
gry eyes, “ what am I to tell him ? Think me unwomanly 
if you will. I have trodden my pride under foot to say 
this thing to you. What am I to tell my cousin ? ” 

In his own heart George Leigh firmly believed that he 
had not many days to live. We must remember that the 
master passion of his soul was his love for Helbne ; his 
great artistic success, his recent triumph at the Salon, 
paled into utter insignificance before it ; and now he was 
suddenly told that his old friend’s suspicions were 
aroused, and that the woman he loved would, for his 
sake, be exposed to the results of the doctor’s indigna- 
tion. ‘I am probably not long for this world,’ he 
thought ; ‘ shall I let my paltry pride stand in the way ? 
No, not for an instant. I can save her in a way that will 
injure no one, pain no one but myself; it is at once my 
duty and my privilege to do this thing, and I will try to 
do it gracefully.’ These thoughts passed very rapidly 
through the sick man’s mind. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


138 

Then he sighed, and his thin fingers returned the ardent 
pressure of Madame Pichon’s hand. The trifling action 
caused the widow’s heart to beat furiously. 

“Tell him,” 'he said, hoarsely, “ tell him, dear Madame 
Pichon, that your visits must not cease. Tell him/' he 
added, with an almost treacherous smile, “that the patient 
cannot get on without his kind nurse.” 

“George, you are not jesting?” said the widow ; “you 
are not mocking me? You really, really love me? Oh, 
George,” she went on, “little did I think when I came 
into your room to-day to bid you farewell forever that I 
should ever know happiness again. I can’t realize it, I 
can’t indeed. My dear love,” she added softly, “don’t 
talk of dying any more ; only promise me that, my best 
beloved. But I am exciting you. I must try and be 
calm, too, as you are.” 

“I fear it’s a poor compliment, Sophie,” he said. 

Never had her own name sounded so charming in her 
happy ears. 

The pair sat in silence for some minutes hand in hand ; 
their hearts were too full for words, but they were actuated 
by very different feelings. The light of unexpected tri- 
umph blazed in Sophie Pichon’s eyes, and there was a 
happy look, too, in the handsome face of the sick man. 
He forgot his disloyalty to the woman whose hand 
clasped his in loving trust and confidence, in the supreme 
delight that he had accomplished the sacrifice of himself 
at the real shrine of his affections. The door opened 
softly, and Madame Tholozan entered ; she paled at what 
she saw, she could hardly believe the evidence of her 
Senses. There lay the man who, till the moment she en- 
tered that room, she had been convinced was consumed 
by a secret passion for herself, the man whom her own 
heart had told her that she loved with the burning un- 


THE FATAL FHRYHE. 


*39 


reasoning affection of a first love ; there he lay, pale as a 
ghost, his unresisting hand still held in Madame Pichon’s. 

What could it mean ? 

But she was not left long in suspense. Madame Pichon 
rose and embraced her with effusion. 

“Dear Helene,” said the widow, “darling Helene!’ 
she added with a satisfied purr, as she magnanimously 
kissed the woman she looked upon as her defeated rival 
upon the lips ; “it’s all settled, my dear child. I’ve 
promised to be George Leigh’s wife.” 

“Sophie,” faltered out Madame Tholozan, scarcely re- 
straining a little sob, “ I hope — I hope you will both be 
very happy. ” But somehow or other she forgot to return 
the widow’s Judas kiss. And then she turned to the sick 
man, but he lay apparently without life or motion. 

“Sophie ! ” screamed the doctor’s wife, as she clutched 
her husband’s cousin by the wrist, “look, Sophie! Oh, 
my God, he is dead ! ” 

But George Leigh had only fainted. 


140 


THE FATAL FHRYNE . 


CHAPTER XII. 

helene's diary. 

“Never in my life have I been so terribly frightened as 
when Monsieur Leigh fainted this morning. 1 have never 
seen death, and I actually thought I was face to face with 
it then, and I fear that I made a fool of myself. The sud- 
den announcement of Sophie’s engagement, which was 
the last thing I had expected, had thoroughly upset me, 
and when I flung myself on my knees at his bedside, I 
honestly believed that George had been snatched from us 
forever. What could my husband have thought of me, 
when he entered and found me kneeling in tears clasping 
the sick man’s hand ? 

“And I have been vain enough, and silly enough, to 
suppose that Monsieur Leigh cared for me, and wicked 
enough, in a sort of half-hearted way, to reciprocate the 
affection that I dreamt was mine. And now I see that it 
was but the creation of my own imagination, the off- 
spring of my wicked and inordinate vanity. My hus- 
band tells me that George will soon be convalescent, and 
I know, as she not too delicately put it, that Sophie has 
promised to be George Leigh’s wife. I deserve my punish- 
ment and humiliation, and, now that he is another’s, I may 
confess it to myself, I have loved him with a wild, unrea- 
soning, selfish passion, the folly and wickedness of 
which is only now wholly apparent to me. It has been 
a fevered dream, but it is over now, and I have wished 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


14 1 

them happiness, — that in itself was a sufficiently severe 
penance ; but many more humiliations are yet in store for 
me. I shall have to look on and see the woman I despise 
marry the man I loved ; for I did love him. I was weak 
enough, because I thought him dying, to love him, and to 
confess to myself that it was so. Alas ! I love him still. 
Perhaps it is better as it is. I alone have been guilty, I 
alone have sinned. When he is Sophie Pichon’s husband 
I shall be thoroughly cured, I suppose, of my infatuation ; 
till then I fear I must love him still. How much more 
fortunate is Sophie than I have been. She, too, was a 
penniless girl. When she sold herself to old Monsieur 
Pichon she obtained a fortune with a serious drawback, 
and then Fate steps in and removes the drawback, while 
the fortune is still her own. Young, rich, and beautiful, 
free to choose, she looks around her to see to whom she 
shall toss the handkerchief. Then she commences her 
apparently hopeless pursuit of George, and now she is 
engaged to marry him, and I have wished them happiness. 
As my husband says, it is the best thing for both of them. 
If George Leigh had really cared for me, I tremble to think 
of the possible results. In any case — in any case — life- 
long misery for both. Yes, it is better as it is. Dr. Tho- 
lozan is right, but it has been a rude awakening for me. 
I wonder whether my husband would hate and despise 
me if he knew how things had been with me. No, I 
don't think it would go as far as that. I should simply 
become ludicrous in his eyes. 

“Can George have looked upon me in the light of a play- 
thing, a mere toy, a pastime ? No, he is no lady-killer. 
I alone have been to blame. George would never have 
dishonored his old friend’s hospitality by even a dishonest 
thought. I ought to know him by this time. As my 
husband says, ‘ he is as straight as a die,* 


142 


THE FATAL THRYNE. 


“ And yet, after all, he thought me worthy to represent the 
type of beauty in his recent masterpiece. 

“Let me remember that I am Dr. Tholozan’s wife, that I 
have eaten the bread of his charity, that I owe to him 
everything I have in the world. Let me try and forget 
the foolish dreams of a love-sick girl. Let me try to 
banish George Leigh from my memory if I can ; let me 
try only to think of him as Madame Pichon’s affianced 
husband. 

“The course of duty is plain ; let me try to follow it ; let 
me only try.” 

George Leigh did not improve as rapidly as had 
been hoped and indeed expected by his friends. The 
first person he saw outside the little coterie of the doctor’s 
family was his literary ally, Duvivier. They talked of the 
pictures, and Duvivier, who criticised artists as well as 
dramatists, narrated with great gusto how he had had the 
pleasure of giving all his friends a helping hand, and how 
his enemies had been by him carefully flagellated. 

“ I rubbed it into them,” said Duvivier. “It’s astonish- 
ing how civil all you fellows get to us just at this time of 
year, how hospitable and generous you all are, and what 
big cigars and choice drinks you administer to us, when 
we come to make notes of your canvases. One wretch 
attempted to bribe me openly. I didn’t know him from 
Adam. ‘ Have a weed, old man ? ’ he said, as he offered 
me a Hamburg abomination. ‘ Fill your pocket, old 
fellow ; there are plenty more where these came from. ’ On 
the Barbier , as you know, we always sign our articles ; I 
don’t think he will care much for mine. I took his skin 
off with as much gusto as could have been exhibited by 
Apollo when he flayed Marsyas.” 

The two men chatted on — that is to say, Duvivier 


THE FATAL PHRYJVE. 


143 

did, for the invalid mostly answered in monosyllables. 

“You seem to me a peg too low,” said Duvivier ; “you 
make me almost doubt what I heard this morning.” 

“What’s that? ” said Leigh. 

“Why, that you were engaged to the chocolate man’s 
handsome widow. They say she’s a perfect Bonanza. 
By Jove ! ” he continued, “there is something in it. 
George, you are blushing like a peony.” 

“It’s true enough, for the matter of that,” said Leigh; 
‘ ‘ but whether I shall ever leave this bed to fulfil the engage- 
ment is quite another thing. ” 

“My dear boy/’ said the other, “the fact of having to 
fulfil what you call ‘ this engagement ’ with one so young, 
so beautiful, and so wealthy as the future Madame Leigh, 
would be enough to have made a dead man rise from his 
grave. Thrice fortunate youth,” he continued; “and I was 
idiot enough to suppose that you secretly worshipped that 
dreamy blonde prude, old Tholozan’s handsome wife.” 

Again the artist blushed to his ears. 

“What! is that, too, a true bill?” laughed the other. 
“ Don’t apologize, George ; I acquit you. Madame 
Pichon’s balance at her bankers is far too large for any 
man to dare to trifle with her affections, and I applaud 
your choice, George. The widow is genuine flesh and 
blood, and deliciously plump into the bargain. Yes, 
you’re quite right. I’d prefer honest flesh and blood to all 
the marble goddesses in Olympus. All the same, old 
man, I'm not quite sure that the doctor isn’t the most to 
be congratulated after all. He will be doubtless overjoyed 
to see you happily married, and safely off his premises. 
You recollect your friend Laguerre ? He’s not half a bad 
fellow in reality, you know. Only this morning he asked 
me if you were the lucky man who was to succeed to the 
untold gold of the late Monsieur Pichon. When I assented, 


144 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


he declared that you were born under a fortunate star. 
‘I like your artist friend, Duvivier,’ he said, ‘though he 
certainly would have horsewhipped me if you hadn’t 
carried him off. Yes, he’d have done it, regardless of my 
size. I read it in his eye. I couldn’t help liking him, if 
it was only for that. It was a wonderful bit of luck for 
him, Duvivier, when one comes to think of it ; we should 
both have gone across the frontier, and I alone should 
have returned. It’s so difficult to let a fellow off when he 
has horse-whipped you, you know. ’ By heavens ! he was 
right, too. Take you all round, my dear boy, you are a 
favorite of Fortune. Heigh-ho !” said the critic, “ I only 
wish the rich widows would look a little my way. And 
you, George, persist in being as miserable as if ‘ Phryne ’ 
had been a failure, and your tailor had issued a writ. You 
haven’t perchance been letting the black-coated gentry 
frighten you, have you, George ? You haven’t been mak- 
ing your soul ? You couldn’t look more glum if you had 
been. Why, only think, my boy, if it hadn’t been for 
your good luck, I might have drawn out the proces verbal 
of your fatal duel with Laguerre, and have earned an 
honest Napoleon by a laudatory obituary notice of you 
afterwards. ” 

The painter smiled. 

Just then Sister Brigitte entered, and the volatile jour- 
nalist took his leave with a kindly farewell smile for his 
sick friend, and a profound bow for Sister Brigitte. 

While Duvivier had been visiting young Leigh, Madame 
Pichon, arrayed in costly raiment of needlework, her face 
beaming with good humor and wreathed in smiles, en- 
tered Dr. Tholozan’s study, in order to have what she had 
demanded the day before, a business interview with him ; 
for her cousin was her trustee, and to a certain extent her 
guardian, — he managed her business matters, invested her 


THE FATAL PHRYNE, 


145 

money for her, and to the doctor were always referred the 
thousand-and-one unfortunate persons whose business it is 
to practice upon the charity or credulity of wealthy ladies 
in Madame Pichon’s position. 

“ I am glad you took my advice, Sophie,” he said, as he 
placed a chair for her. 

“I always take your advice, Felix,” replied the lady, 
“and I have never had cause to regret doing so.” 

“And you want to talk about settlements, I suppose? 
You may make your mind quite easy ; George Leigh is a 
gentleman. ” 

“No, it’s not exactly about settlements I want to talk 
to you, Felix ; it’s about something far more important, 
it’s about my peace of mind. It is all very well, Felix, 
but things are upon a different footing now, and I don’t 
want any unpleasant complications to arise. I’ve never 
been a jealous woman, Felix. During the whole time of 
my short married life I never manifested the slightest jeal- 
ousy of Monsieur Pichon ; but I feel that if he gave me 
cause I could be horribly jealous of George. I want you 
to help me, old friend, I know that he is impressionable, 
and I know that a sick man exposed to dangerous fascina- 
tions is apt to be weak. I don’t want him to be exposed 
to temptation, poor fellow. When we are once married 
it will be a different thing. You can help me, Felix, and 
you alone. But it is a delicate matter.” 

“You don’t mean to say that you want me to send Sis- 
ter Brigitte away ? ” 

“No, I can trust Sister Brigitte,” said the widow. 
“You won’t be offended, Felix, at what I’m going to say, 
but to speak plainly, had Monsieur Pichon been alive, 
and had I been nursing George, it might have interfered 
with poor Adolphe’s peace of mind.” 


146 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


“That’s very delicately put, Sophie. I take it that it’s 
my peace of mind you’re exercised about? ” 

“ You have hit it Ever since this terrible episode, 
when George showed his fatal infatuation, I have been 
anxious for you, Felix." 

“Thanks, Sophie; but I am quite capable of taking 
care of my own interests." 

“You’ll acknowledge that they have been imperilled at 
least, I suppose ? " 

“If I hadn’t known you from a child, Sophie, I should 
have to be angry with you ; but nothing that you can say, 
or think, my dear, will irritate me." 

“And yet I’ve thought a good deal, and unless Fm very 
much mistaken you too have, as you put it, been consid- 
erably — exercised, Cousin Felix. Till our engagement 
took place George may be said to have been common 
property ; now he is my very own, and the position is 
changed. He must be removed from dangerous associ- 
ations, Felix." 

“My dear, he can’t leave his bed for three weeks.” 

“Then if he can’t be removed from the danger, let us 
remove the danger.” 

“You were always a woman of invention, Sophie; can 
you suggest a way ? ’’ 

“The suggestion must naturally come from you." 

“ I’m afraid I can’t help you, my dear." 

“And you mean to tell me, really and seriously that 
you’re not just a little bit jealous, Cousin Felix ? You, 
who with your own eyes saw the absurdly flattered like- 
ness of Helene, which George had the wickedness to in- 
sult us both with ? You were very angry indeed at the 
time. Of that I am sure." 

“ I was annoyed, my dear, for the moment ; but I had 
reason to see my own folly. I read Helene’s soul as I 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


147 

read an open book, Sophie, — as I read an open book,” 
said the doctor, bitterly. “Besides,” he went on, “ why 
should I be jealous of the man who is about to marry my 
own cousin ? It will be a different thing, perhaps, when 
he has carried out his intentions. Till then, however, I 
think I may rest easy.” 

“ It’s so like you to say that, Felix, it’s just one of those 
spiteful bitter speeches which are habitual with you. But 
nothing can ruffle me. I decline to bandy left-handed 
compliments with you. Would you mind obliging me 
for once, cousin, by just simulating a jealousy which is of 
course foreign to one who is such a philosopher? ” She 
placed her hand on the doctor's affectionately. “Try for 
once in your life, Felix dear, to think that Helene is but 
human after all, and very much like the rest of the sex.” 

“My dear Sophie,” said the doctor, “Helene wouldn't 
believe me ; she knows well enough that she has given 
me no cause for jealousy. Besides, my dear, I am an 
old man, and if I behaved like an idiot she might think 
my mind was giving way. ” 

“She should have thought of that, Felix, when you 
married her,” said Madame Pichon, spitefully. 

“I'll do anything lean to oblige you, anything in 
reason; but I confess I don’t feel myself equal to the role 
of Othello, even in jest, and for your sake, Sophie.” 

“Take care you don’t have to play it in earnest, 
Felix. ” 

The doctor moved uneasily in his chair. 

“I almost begin to think, % my dear,” he said, “that 
you'll have rather a rough time of it, if, when you’ve mar- 
ried your artist, you should feel yourself compelled to run 
about among your male friends suggesting that they 
should be jealous of their wives for his sake. The idea is 
sufficiently comic.” 


148 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


“Felix, a little jealousy is a delightful thing in a man ; 
in a married man, I mean. We know then that he loves 
us. The late Monsieur Pichon, was frightfully jealous. 
Not that I ever gave him the slightest cause, you know ; 
but his jealousy gave me unspeakable pleasure. Felix,” 
continued the widow solemnly, “there must be no more 
tete-h-tetes ; they were bad enough before, but as we are 
situated now they would be highly indecorous.” 

“Very well, my dear ; it shall be as you wish, Helene 
or I will contrive to be present whenever you visit your 
invalid. ” 

“ You persist in misunderstanding me, Felix. Were I 
a young girl my seeing the man I am engaged to marry, 
alone, would be of course impossible ; but being a widow 
things are very different. We have naturally a great deal 
to say to each other, a great deal to arrange, much to talk 
over. Situated as we are, tete-a-tete interviews are indis- 
pensable. ” 

“For the .riveting of the fetters, I suppose ? ” 

“ Don’t be unkind,” said the widow, with a little sigh. 
“What you are pleased to call the riveting will be a very 
pleasant process for both of us, I think ; and I’ll try to 
render it as painless as possible to poor George. But, 
Felix,” said the widow solemnly, “ Helene is ^oung, 
romantic, and impressionable. Shield her from tempta- 
tion ; the very fact of his being engaged to another renders 
him more attractive in any woman’s eyes. Don’t you 
think that Sister Brigitte needs assistance? Don’t you 
think that if we had another sister it would be nicer for 
him ? The air of the sick room seems to my mind to be 
telling upon Helene; she looks pale, anxious, and ill.” 

“There you're right, Sophie,” said the doctor, “the 
poor child got into her head that my young friend would 
not survive this illness, and she became naturally de- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


149 

pressed. He thought so too, poor fellow ; and I believe 
thinks so still. But I doubt whether Sister Brigitte would 
consent to accept a coadjutor. Still, he’ll have something 
else to think about now, and he can hardly suppose him- 
self a dying man when he proposed to you yesterday, or 
vice versa , as the case may have been. ” 

“Dr. Tholozan, you forget yourself. Oh, Felix, I’m 
bewildered by the greatness of my happiness. Will it be 
very foolish if I come to see him every day? Will he tire 
of me ? ” 

“The feeling of weariness, my dear, does not as a 
general rule come on until after marriage.” 

“ Oh, Felix, if he should back out of it after all. No, 
I shall make a point of coming every day. I shall see 
more of Helene. I shall insist on her driving with me 
every afternoon, and I shall dine with you, every day, if 
you don’t mind, until he is out of danger.” 

“ Certainly, my dear, certainly ; we shall be delighted.” 

“And if Sister Brigitte won’t have assistance, and she’s 
an obstinate little old woman, I shall be ready at any 
time to relieve her, or even to take her place. What could 
be more natural ? what could be more appropriate? ” 

“ Have your own way, Sophie,” said the doctor, “sail 
your ship yourself. By-the-by, where are you going to- 
day? You seem more than usually gorgeous and dressed 
as for some important function.” 

“I’m going to see the man I love. I’m going to take 
him these flowers and this fruit, w she said* pointing to a 
bouquet of orchids and a basket of phenomenal grapes. 
It is the privilege of defenceless widows, Dr. Tholozan, 
to attend to the sick and minister to their wants. It is, 
as you say, an important function. Do you like my 
dress ? ” and she gave a sort of pirouette, and dropped him 
a low curtsy. “And now, as I want to see my patient, 


150 


THE FATAL PIIRYHE . 


kindly let Sister Brigitte be informed of my presence. I’ve 
ordered the carriage at ten, and I'm going to make a 
long day of it. ” 

And then Madame Pichon was escorted to the sick 
man’s chamber by the doctor’s parlor-maid, and the pro- 
cess of riveting the fetters commenced in earnest. 

“Don’t mind me, George,” she said as she entered the 
room, a strong whiff of tuberose, her favorite perfume, 
being diffused around her, “ I’m going to be here a great 
deal now.” It’s just as well to let the Sister see how mat- 
ters stand between us, she thought, and she walked up to 
the bed, took off her elaborate bonnet, and kissed the 
artist on his forehead. 

Sister Brigitte’s eyes opened very wide indeed. 

“You won’t excite my patient, Madame, if you please,” 
said Sister Brigitte. 

“ Oh no, dear Sister ; he’s quite safe in my hands, ” said 
the widow. Why doesn’t the cross old thing go ? she 
thought to herself ; if I suggest it she will stick here like 
a limpet. I thought the kiss would have frightened her 
away. “What can I do to be useful, Sister? ’’she said 
aloud in her blandest tone. “ I’m only an amateur you 
know, your last new pupil, and oh, so anxious to learn ! ” 

But the look of affectionate interest that she cast on her 
was wasted on the Sister. 

“We’ve been awake since breakfast,” she said, “ and I 
think we’re getting a little fatigued and weary. I usually 
read to him at this time ; he soon drops off. Since 
Madame has been so considerate as to offer to lighten 
my labors, she might perhaps like to read. My eyes 
are not what they were,” said Sister Brigitte, “and 
Madame’s voice is softer.” 

“I shall be delighted,” replied Madame Pichon, 
effusively. “What shall I read, George? ” she said. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


151 

“I marked where we left off,” said the Sister, as she 
placed “ The Lives of the Saints” in her victim’s hand. 
“ It is very good indeed of Madame,” and then she com- 
posed herself comfortably in her chair, drew a big ball of 
gray worsted and a pair of knitting needles from her 
pocket, together with an unfinished gray stocking, and 
clapping a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles upon her nose, 
she commenced to knit mechanically and looked ex- 
pectantly at Madame Pichon. 

There was no escape. 

Now nothing had been further from the widow’s mind 
than reading aloud to the invalid. Reading aloud is an 
accomplishment which, like music, is not acquired with- 
out a considerable amount of practice. Those who are 
in the habit of reading aloud are generally very unselfish 
people. As a rule, if they read well they sacrifice them- 
selves to their audience, and Madame Pichon was dis- 
trustful of her own powers, and terribly afraid of making 
herself ridiculous. Had it been a romantic novel, or had 
they been alone, she would not have hesitated to do her 
best to amuse her affianced husband ; but to be ordered 
to read a gentleman to sleep is an ordeal, particularly 
when one feels that one has a great deal to say to the 
gentleman which is not at all of a soporific nature. 

George Leigh was very weak and very feeble, but he 
had sufficient strength to smile at Madame Pichon, and 
she returned his smile, for the oddness of the situation 
tickled them both. 

“Don't you think, Sister Brigitte,” said the widow, 
“that the subject is a trifle depressing ? ” 

“Ah, Madame,” said Sister Brigitte, “he won’t listen 
to the words at all ; it will be simply the continuous sound 
of your voice that will make him drop off. It wouldn't 
be half so valuable a book for nursing purposes if it were 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


152 

interesting. As it is it’s infallible. Madame may have 
noticed that when she goes to buy a song-bird, the bird- 
seller invariably shakes up some seed in a sieve and then 
all the birds sing at once ; they can’t help it, poor things. 
Now my little book, like the bird-fancier’s sieve, never 
fails ; only it has directly the contrary effect. Courage, 
Madame ; it is the kindest thing you could do for him. 

Thus adjured there was nothing left for Madame Pichon 
but obedience. She gave a little pout, found her place 
in the book, and then she plunged into “The Lives of the 
Saints.” 

And Sister Brigitte was right ; within ten minutes, what 
with his weakness and the effects of the Sister’s panacea, 
George Leigh w T as sound asleep. 

Madame Pichon, who had taken a little tender gaze at 
the sufferer between each paragraph, saw that it was so 
and ceased to read. 

“He has dropped off, I think, Sister,” she said, softly. 

Sister Brigitte did not answer ; she merely raised a warn- 
ing finger, and then went on with her stocking-knitting. 

Madame Pichon closed the book, and then she took a 
good long look at the sleeping man. Never before had the 
widow had an opportunity of gazing uninterruptedly at 
him with a critical eye. He was sleeping peacefully, 
with slightly parted lips. Dear fellow ! she thought, he 
is beautiful even in sleep, and the remembrance that her 
deceased Adolphe always slept with his mouth wide open 
and snored fearfully made Madame Pichon give a little 
shudder. How terribly pale he looks, she thought ; his 
hands* seem more like carved ivory than flesh and blood. 
Oh, if he were to die, and I were to lose him, after all ! 
I wonder whether the Sister will go on knitting and not 
leave us at all. Stupid old woman, she looks as if she 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


153 

could knit on forever. As for George he may sleep for 
hours. 

And then she crossed the room on tiptoe and whispered 
to Sister Brigitte pleadingly ; “Let me know when he 
wakes, dear Sister Brigitte ; he is my affianced husband, 
you know,” she added, confidentially, “and we have a 
great deal to say to each other/’ 

The Sister nodded and smiled, and Madame Pichon left 
the room as noiselessly as the heavy frou-frou of her 
handsome silk dress would permit ; but as she closed the 
door she kissed her finger-tips to the sleeping man. 

Then Madame Pichon partook of an excellent dejeuner 
with her cousin and his wife. Then she suggested that 
Madame Tholozan should go for a drive with her ; but 
she could not prevail upon her cousin’s wife to accompany 
her, and so she started alone. 

Still the sick man slept on, and just as Madame Pichon 
had left him, so Dr. Tholozan found him in a heavy 
dreamless slumber when he entered the room. Sister 
Brigitte was still knitting steadily on ; she had completed 
at least two inches of her stocking from the time when 
George had first commenced to doze. 

“ It’s a sound, natural sleep,” said the doctor, “and 
will do him all the good in the world. Go and get a nap 
yourself, Sister,” he added, good-naturedly. “I will stay 
with him for awhile, and my cousin on her return will be 
only too delighted to take my place.” 

The Sister nodded, and did as she was bid. 

The doctor dragged the great winged padded chair, in 
which the Sister was accustomed to keep her nocturnal 
vigils, right in front of the smouldering fire. It was a 
particularly comfortable chiar, the great padded back and 
sides gave rest to the weary head, and protected the sitter 
from every possible draught. “ Just the very chair for an 


154 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


old man like myself,” thought the doctor. “Perhaps in 
a year or two this very old chair may be my home ; I may 
not be able to quit it, I may even die in it. There are 
worse fates for a man, for she will tend me and smooth 
my path to the grave. And then they can be happy. But 
will they wait so long ? It’s a mystery to me, he thought, 
as he sat basking before the fire, entirely concealed by 
the great chair, ‘ ‘ how they have managed to hide it from 
each other, and how they have both involuntarily taken 
me into their confidence — he through his picture, she 
through her diary. If I were ten years younger, or if I 
loved Helene with anything else but a father’s love, I 
should have boiled over long ago. As it is, the young 
fellow seeks to conceal his love for my wife by engaging 
to marry my cousin, feeling perfectly certain in his own 
mind that he has not many days to live. It’s a pretty 
complication ; I wouldn’t have believed it possible twenty- 
four hours ago. ” 

As these thoughts ran through the doctor’s mind, he 
heard the door gently opened. 

Madame Tholozan entered softly. She gazed upon 
the sleeping man whose face was turned towards the 
door. 

“ Sister Brigitte,” she whispered, “Sister Brigitte ! ” 

There was no answer. The silence in the room was 
unbroken save by the soft breathings of the sleeping man. 
“ How cruel of her,” thought the young wife, “ she has 
left him all alone. ” And then she stood by the bedside 
and looked at him sadly, her heart overflowing with pity 
and affection. “I may not love him,” she thought, 
“ but I may pray for him,” and she dropped gently on 
her knees by the bedside, and buried her face in her hands 
absorbed in silent prayer. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


155 

It would be idle to attempt to put into words the agony 
of that long prayer. 

Whilst she knelt, her husband’s face appeared from be- 
hind the wing of the great chair ; his eager eyes took in 
the situation at a glance, and then his head disappeared 
once more. 

“Oh, George, George ! ” she moaned aloud and tears 
dropped plentifully from the lovely eyes, “do not go from 
me. Oh, if you could only be spared to me. Oh, my 
love ! Oh, if I could only die for you. Oh, if my wicked 
wasted life could only be accepted for yours — you who 
have so much to live for, while I have nothing left to me, 
not even my hopeless love ! ” And then again the un- 
happy girl buried her face in her hands and burst into an 
agony of silent tears. 

George Leigh had heard her words as in a dream, his 
eyes opened and he ran his hand nervously through the 
dank mass of his hair, and then he stared at the little 
golden head, whose face was hidden, in bewildered 
astonishment. 

Once more she raised her head, and their eyes met. 
She did not move from her kneeling position. 

“You have come to bid me farewell, Helene,” he said 
softly, and he lingered lovingly upon the name he had 
dared to utter aloud for the first time. “You can forgive 
me, Madame Tholozan ? You can forgive the wrong I 
did my friend’s wife in a moment of folly ? Say you for- 
give me, Helene, and I shall die happy.” 

She never answered him at first, but she placed her 
hand on his, then she gave a deep sigh, and then she 
spoke in a broken voice, her eyes still streaming with 
bitter tears : 

“My folly and wickedness have been greater than 
yours, George, for I have loved you with a passionate 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


156 

and wicked love that I have hardly dared to confess even 
to myself. You will think me a shameless woman, 
George, when I confess it to you face to face, as I do here 
upon my knees. My husband tells me that it was only 
natural that I should love you. We have both sinned, 
George. Heaven grant that we may be forgiven here- 
after. We shall never meet again, in this world. Oh, my 
love, my first, my only love, let me tear myself from you 
while I have strength ! ” 

Is it to be wondered at that the sudden knowledge that 
his secret love was returned should cause his face to light 
up with a smile of triumph, should cause the eyes of the 
sick man to sparkle with unwonted brilliancy ? 

“Stay with me yet a moment, darling/’ he said, as he 
clasped her warm hand in his emaciated fingers. . “You 
do love me, Helene ? ” he said. 

“ I do indeed, George,” she replied. 

“ I would have died to have heard those words. Kiss 
me once, my darling. My old friend wouldn't grudge us 
this one kiss, or even Heaven itself.” 

She never thought of resisting his will ; it dominated 
her. Could she refuse to press her lips to the lips of the 
man who loved her, and into whose greedy ears she had 
but that moment poured the tale of her own passion ? 

She was but a woman after all, an erring, trusting 
woman. Better for her if she had refused, better for them 
both. Their lips met in one fervent melting kiss. 

“Farewell, George,” she cried, “ farewell forever,” and 
she rushed from the room. 

The old man who sat in the big chair before the smoul- 
dering fire never moved. He had heard enough, more 
than enough ; his heart was turned to stone. He sat and 
thought before the fire and gazed into the embers, and 


THE FATAL PHRYATE. 


157 

when an hour after Sister Brigitte entered the room she 
still found him sitting there in silence. 

The sick man was asleep, a happy smile upon his wasted 
features. The doctor stretched himself. 

“I think I must have been dreaming, Sister, ” he said ; 
“anyhow, your patient is sound asleep, and there’s no 
medicine like good natural sleep, after all. Ah ! I’ve let 
the fire out, Sister Brigitte,” he went on, “ excuse my 
forgetfulness,” and he left the room and tottered as he 
wen 

“What a wreck he looks!” thought the Sister. “I 
wonder he doesn’t frighten his patients ; he must be eighty 
if he is a day.” 


158 


THE FATAL FHRYNE . 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The mutual declaration, or rather confession, which the 
artist and the doctor’s wife had made to one another in the 
presence of the person who, next to themselves, was most 
interested in the matter, had been almost involuntary. 
Probably when Madame Tholozan, in the agony of her 
soul, kneeling in prayer by what she supposed to be the 
dying bed of the man she loved, had gradually slid in her 
mental struggle from mere meditation into audible words, 
she had done so unwittingly. George Leigh’s passionate 
declaration to her was but the solemn utterance of a final 
farewell. As has been said, the effect upon the involun- 
tary eavesdropper had been to turn his heart to stone. He 
had looked upon their mutual liking with a forgiving eye ; 
we know the feeling that he had entertained for his beau- 
tiful young wife was an affection entirely devoid of 
passion. He took a natural pride in her beauty, he was 
gratified by her solicitude for his comfort and amusement, 
he trusted her implicitly ; but no one knew better than Dr. 
Tholozan himself that the impassable gulf of forty years 
stood between them. Probably, had the daily entries in 
his wife’s diary never met his eye, he would have been 
contented to rub along contemplating the growth of her 
affection for the artist calmly enough from a philosophical 
standpoint; but what he had heard, coupled with the 
accurate knowledge he possessed of the state of his wife’s 
heart, upset all his calculations, and, strange to say, 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


*59 

rendered him furiously jealous. He knew enough of 
George Leigh to be perfectly aware that the young man 
was bound hand and foot to that child of earth, his own 
handsome cousin. He knew well enough that Madame 
Pichon would never release her victim from his engage- 
ment. The doctor then was considerably astonished to 
find himself eaten up by a furious and unreasoning jealousy 
of the two innocent young people, who in his very pres- 
ence had declared their mutual love. At first he pictured 
himself looking on, as a sort of disinterested and amused 
spectator, at the inevitable complications that must ensue ; 
and it was with considerable surprise that he found that he 
had ceased to be disinterested and that the contemplation 
of his position only angered and annoyed him. Whatever 
might be the result, he felt that his own position, day by 
day, must become more ludicrous ; and this was made 
doubling galling when he remembered that he had only 
himself to thank for it. True, there were the numerous 
possibilities of the chapter of accidents. It was remotely 
possible that the sick man might succumb. It was open 
to him, too, to make an appeal ad misericordiam to his 
wife’s sense of justice ; but Dr. Tholozan felt that he could 
not descend to this. He felt far more inclined to take the 
sick man into his confidence, and argue with him as man 
to man ; but though that course might be open to him 
ultimately, he felt that in the artist’s present state it was 
impossible. The more he turned the matter over in his 
mind, the more he felt that he had no one to blame but 
himself; and he knew that if he trusted to Madame Pichon’s 
fascinations to cure young Leigh of his infatuation, he 
would be leaning on a broken reed. But what astonished 
him more than anything was the sudden awakening ofhis 
own unreasoning jealousy. There was a time when he 
had almost found a pleasure in the idea ofhis young wife's 


l6o THE FATAL PHRYATE. 

finding rest and happiness in a marriage with the artist 
after his own death. The first contingency was now 
repugnant to him, and somehow or another he dismissed 
the second from his calculations. His feelings had consid- 
erably changed towards the young people. Previously, 
in theory, he had manifested an extraordinary toleration 
for the growth of the natural affection between them which 
be looked upon as inevitable. Now he suddenly remem- 
bered that he was Madame Pichon’s cousin, he bethought 
himself of his duties to her, and he felt himself a sort of 
righteous judge, prepared to mete out punishment untem- 
pered by mercy to the two criminals should occasion serve. 
He now longed for night that he might read the latest entry 
in his wife’s journal, and thus become aware of the 
inmost workings of her mind. It didn’t trouble him a bit 
that he had been taking an unfair advantage of her. Dr. 
Tholozan did not stick at trifles ; in fact, as we shall see 
hereafter, he stuck at nothing. 

The doctor and the two ladies sat down to dinner. 
While the servants were present the conversation was gen- 
eral ; as soon as they left the room, the doctor and his 
wife lapsed into silence, and Madame Pichon took up the 
running. 

“Do you know, Helene,” she said, “that I’ve been 
horribly jealous of you and Sister Brigitte lately ? I’ve 
quite made up my mind, my dear, that we shall make a 
sort of grand tour immediately after our marriage, and so 
prolong the honeymoon indefinitely, and give George the 
rest and change of scene he needs so much. Besides, it’s 
just as well that he should shake himself free of old asso- 
ciations and old entanglements,” she said, spitefully. 
“ He’ll be called upon to fill a very different position 
now, you see. He has had to paint for bread, poor boy, 
till now ; if he persists in going on with it after our mar- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


1 6 1 


riage it must be only as an amusement. He’ll have his 
hands pretty full when we come back, for I shall enter- 
tain a good deal. Since poor Pichon died, etiquette has 
forbidden my seeing my friends ; in fact, you and Felix 
have been almost my only guests. Why shouldn’t George 
become naturalized and attempt political life ? ” she added 
with a sigh. 

“ My dear Sophie,” said the doctor, “George has al- 
ready attained success in his own line ; his social success 
will be pretty apparent when he marries you. He was 
always a favorite with the women,” — here Madame Tho- 
lozan blushed to the ears, — “as is natural enough, for 
my young friend is undeniably handsome.” 

“ You don’t exasperate me, Felix,” said the widow, 
“in the least . ’’ 

“ I don’t want to alarm you,” replied the doctor ; “but 
what I say I mean. I have the strongest evidence of the 
young Englishman’s having inspired at least one tremen- 
dous passion. ” Again Madame Tholozan blushed to her 
ears. 

“I don’t believe it. George is discretion itself; and if 
he were wicked enough to have ever inspired a passion, 
as you call it, he’ll have sense enough to see that the day 
for that sort of thing for him is past. If he ever had 
disgraced himself by such a thing, Felix, I am quite sure 
you are the last person he would have chosen for a con- 
fidant. He would have been much more likely to have 
told me.” 

“My dear Sophie, rest assured that you will be always 
the very last person to hear of his little successes. Be- 
sides, I didn’t say he told me. I may have heard it from 
the lady in my professional capacity ; we hear many 
strange things at the bedside. ” 

“ I never thought much of your profession, and I think 


162 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


still less of it now, when I hear from your own lips that 
your patients, instead of talking about their ailments, 
choose you as the person into whose ears they pour their 
rapture for my affianced husband. Like you, Felix, jeal- 
ousy has never troubled me. Poor Monsieur Pichon never 
gave me cause. Besides, I have far too high an idea of my 
own attractions. Am I not the original of the Niobe ? 
Did not my features, softened by recent grief, inspire 
George with the idea of his Sigismonda? Had George 
been actuated by mercenary motives, he would have 
spoken long ago ; but he is so diffident, so bashful, poor 
fellow. It seems so long ago, and yet it was only yes- 
terday that he nerved himself to declare his love. Oh, 
Helene, I feel at peace with all the world ! I could for- 
give even a rival now. Kiss me, darling,” she said, and 
she turned her cheek to her cousin’s wife. 

Helene kissed her, doing as she was bid. 

“ I don’t know, though,” the widow went on, “how I 
should have felt towards a successful rival. Paris has 
given me the apple, you see, and I’m naturally grateful. 
But I’ve been here since ten o’clock, and I haven’t had 
more than ten minutes of George’s society, and then Sis- 
ter Brigitte made me read that hateful book, ‘ The Lives 
of the Saints,’ to him. Let us go to him, Felix. The car- 
riage is ordered in an hour, and the poor fellow must be 
literally hungering for my society.” 

‘ ‘ It seems to me, Sophie, that the hungering is mutual. 
As you say, let us go to him at once. It is but natural, 
after all, that the poor fellow should be craving for the 
presence of the woman he loves. It is but natural, is it 
not, my child ? ” he said, turning towards his wife. 

“I suppose so, ” said she, wearily, and again the tell- 
tale blush spread itself on her expressive face. “But I 
am out of sorts, Felix ; I think I shall ask you and Sophie 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


163 

to excuse me. I think I’ll lie down a little, for I have a 
headache, and the close air of the sick-room may upset 
me.” 

“I shan’t excuse you for an instant, said her husband’s 
cousin, as she took her victim’s hand and gazed into her 
eyes. “I want you to see our happiness, and be the 
witness of my triumph. Besides, my dear,” she contin- 
ued, with a little laugh, “think of the convenances. Felix 
would certainly go to sleep in the easy-chair, and then we 
should be practically alone. That couldn’t be permitted 
under present circumstances, even for an instant. You’ll 
have to come, my dear, if it’s only to play propriety. ” 

“There’s hope for you yet, Sophie. You have actually 
begun to awaken to the fitness of things. Come with us, 
my child, and play propriety. The duties of the daisy- 
picker are dull ; but resignation, my child, though at times 
difficult, is always a Christian virtue.” 

And the procession of three, headed by Madame 
Pichon, walked towards the sick man’s room. 

“I am sincerely glad to see you, ladies,” said Sister 
Brigitte. “In the first place I’m terribly tired, and I 
shall be so glad to take my dose of sleep. Secondly,” she 
added, turning to the doctor, “ the poor young gentleman 
wants rousing ; he takes a most sombre view of his 
situation ; and though I tell him that his convalescence is 
rapidly approaching, he merely shakes his head and 
smiles meaningly. Oh, doctor,” she went on, “if you 
would only make him understand that he’s bound to get 
well, whether he will or no ! He is gaining strength 
daily, I’m sure, for he won't listen to ‘The Lives of the 
Saints ’ any longer, and that’s always a certain sign. Try 
to cheer him, dear ladies. You, madame,” she added 
pointedly to the widow, “should exert your influence.” 

And then Sister Brigitte, who looked rather like a dis- 


164 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


sipated owl, politely stifled a yawn and retired to rest. 

Madame Pichon sat down in the easy-chair at the bedside, 
as a matter of course. Was it not hers by right of conquest ? 
Helene, with one single stolen glance at the sick man — a 
glance not unobserved by her husband, produced her 
dainty netting with its little ball of crimson silk, its ivory 
mesh, its steel needle, and its fairy stirrup, and she com- 
menced working in silence, her eyes fixed upon the little 
purse. The doctor disappeared into the great winged 
chair before the fire, and gave himself up to unpleasant 
reminiscences of what he had heard when last he sat 
there. 

And then the patient opened his eyes. 

Madame Pichon placed her jewelled fingers with an 
air of gentle proprietorship upon the sick man’s brow, 
and as she did so, the rattling of her bracelets sounded to 
him like the clank of chains. 

“ Your forehead is cool, George,” she said, “and you 
have slept. Your pains are less, I trust, mon ami P You 
are better, say, is it not so ? ” then she took his hand. 

“Every one tells me so, dear madame,” he replied; 
“but I am very weak, though I no longer suffer so much 
actual pain. ” 

“George,” said the lady, “we haven’t quarrelled yet ; we 
shall never quarrel, I hope, dear love ; but for you at least 
Madame Pichon has ceased to exist. I am Sophie now,” 
she added softly, “and you are George. Let us be 
George and Sophie to the end of the chapter, and when 
you call me Madame Pichon I shall know you’re angry 
with me.” 

Her words were lost upon the sick man, his eyes were 
fixed with a burning gaze upon the downcast head of the 
woman he loved, but their glances never crossed, for 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 165 

Helbne stared persistently at her netting. She dared not 
meet his eye. 

“I’ve told them everything,” continued Madame 
Pichon, “there never need be secrets between us four, 
need there, George, dear ? ” added the widow. 

The invalid did not dispute this proposition. 

“Felix,” said Madame Pichon, “ don’t isolate yourself. 
In that hideous chair we cease to be aware of your 
presence.” 

“ That’s exactly the beauty of it, Sophie,” answered the 
doctor; “the chair renders me invisible, and I am no 
longer the skeleton at the feast. Besides, it’s a comfort- 
able chair, suitable for an old man like me. I can look 
on as a disinterested spectator now, though a few days ago 
I was very anxious about you, George Leigh. Now you 
have nothing else to do but to make up for lost time, to 
eat, drink, and sleep your very utmost, and bask in Sophie 
Pichon’s sunny smiles. You’re a lucky fellow, George, a 
lucky fellow with nothing to regret, everything to hope 
for, and nothing to reproach yourself with. Is it not so, 
my young friend ? ” skid the doctor, giving his verbal 
knife a dexterous twist, as he placed a fresh log upon the 
fire. 

“ I've a great deal to be grateful for,” replied the young 
man enigmatically. 

“I should think so, indeed. Half Paris is singing your 
praises already at the Salon, and all the men will be envy- 
ing you your good fortune. You did right, my boy, to 
strike while you were an interesting invalid. You wouldn’t 
have had half the chance had you been in robust health. 
Pity is always akin to love, you know. Why, there’s 
Helene there, she wouldn’t have married me if it hadn’t 
been for pity ; it’s the same sentiment that makes her net 
that pretty purse for me. Why, when you were really in 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


166 

danger, George, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, even 
Sister Brigitte took • more than a professional interest in 
you. It’s a great thing to be young and good-looking, my 
friend. By the way, there’s a matter of business I wanted 
to mention to you. Israels has been here twice a day 
ever since the opening of the Salon. You’ll have to see 
him, you know, or else give me power to treat. ” 

And so the desultory conversation went on between 
the three, Madame Tholozan alone taking no part in it. 
Ten o’clock came at last, and Madame Pichon’s carriage 
being announced, the enamored widow reluctantly tore 
herself away. Madame Tholozan, too, retired at her hus- 
band’s suggestion, and the doctor then, seated himself by 
the sick man’s side. After a little pause the doctor cleared 
his throat and began to chat. 

“You and Sophie certainly astonished us, my young 
friend,” he said. “I had no idea things had gone so far 
between you, until she announced to me your actual en- 
gagement. You’ve both been a little shy about it, you 
know. To tell you the truth, George, I was pleasantly 
surprised, for I had suspected you ” — the invalid started — 
“I had suspected you of a penchant for some one else. 
Shall I be candid ? Old friends, like you and I, should be 
candid with one another. I thought there was a little 
tenderness on your part for Helfcne, and more than that, 
at times I fancied that it was returned. ” He laid his hand 
on the sick man’s wrist, and mechanically placed his thin 
fingers on the pulse. “ I shouldn’t have been surprised,” 
he went on carelessly, “ even if this r had been the case. 
The fact is, you’ve been thrown so much together, you 
two, by my fault,” he added, “by my fault. But now I 
see that, with regard to you at least, I was certainly mis- 
taken. How intensely ridiculous we jealous old fools 
must appear to other people. But if it had been so with 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


167 

Helfcne, if she had allowed her passion to outrun her pru- 
dence, and permitted herself to become infatuated with 
your good looks, my boy, as things have turned out, her 
sufferings would have been severe, she would have felt 
the tortures of the damned. How fast the pulse is, George ; 
you are very shaky yet. ” 

Why did not George Leigh take the doctor into his 
confidence? Probably from a mistaken sense of honor. 
We know that Dr. Tholozan was in possession of the se- 
cret of his young wife’s heart ; we know that he had sat 
and heard the mutual declaration of these two poor 

lovesick fools ; and we know that he looked upon the 

artist’s engagement to his cousin in its true light — merely 
as a deliberate sacrifice of himself on the young man’s 

part, a sacrifice made in cold blood for the sake of the 

woman he loved. 

“You have often told me, doctor,” said the sick man, 
wearily, “that a marriage of reason is the safest of 
all unions. Madame Pichon has been excessively kind 
to me; she has always taken an interest in my work, — 
that in itself is a great deal. And as you have repeatedly 
said one must settle down sooner or later. When a 
woman takes an interest in a man, doctor, she interests 
him at once ; she does not become less interesting if she 
happens to be young, rich, and handsome.” 

“You are progressing rapidly, George Leigh. Not 
so long ago you were but a dreamer of dreams ; and now 
I find you a nineteenth-century philosopher. You are 
coming round to my views of life ; you are right, too, 
from every point of view, for, even had my ridiculous 
theory been correct, there might have been a weary while 
to wait before you could realize your mutual dreams.” 

The artist made no reply. 

“ It’s amusing,” thought the doctor to himself, “how 


THE FATAL PILRYNE. 


1 68 

this young Jesuit follows his natural instinct, and still 
seeks to deceive me. Poor wretch ; like the fabled ostrich ; 
he buries his head in the sand, and fancies himself securely 
hidden. There is one comfort, he’ll find his punishment 
in Sophie, if he does marry her. If Sophie had her way, 
she’d carry him about on her head in a glass box as the 
Genius carried the Lady.” 

Young Leigh had dropped off again into a fitful slum- 
ber ; the doctor sat and gazed at him in silence, and 
meditated long and deeply. “ Why couldn’t he be con- 
tent,” thought the old man to himself, “ with his profes- 
sional success, with the pretty doll who has flung herself 
into his arms, with her money and her beauty ? for she is 
undeniably handsome, and beautiful in her way ; a pleas- 
ing object for a weary eye to rest upon. Or, failing that, 
why shouldn’t he wait for the woman he really loves ? 
Why have the years rolled back with me, why is the com- 
mon lot of all husbands come upon me, why am I as sav- 
agely jealous as an enamored boy ? Why have the resources 
of my art placed the old man’s vengeance easy to his hand? 
And if I take that vengeance, I shall be tortured by remorse, 
for I loved him, I did love him as a son. He has had 
his chance, and cast it aside. Why couldn’t he have taken 
me into his confidence ? If I do this devilish thing, I too 
shall suffer : so would she, the woman who has cheated 
me and deceived me in her heart, the woman who will 
loathe me soon, if she does not loathe me now. I might 
murder him with impunity ; no one would be the wiser, 
no one would see the hand that struck him down. But 
that would be but a poor sort of vengeance. I should but 
separate them for a while, to meet again hereafter — if there 
be a hereafter No, the other course is the one I must 
follow. I must steel my heart to thoughts of pity, and 
stand by and see the consummation of my own revenge. 


THE FATAL PHRYATE. 


169 


Sleep on, poor wretch," he thought, “you will so^n 
awaken to appreciate the punishment that falls upon the 
man who dares to step between me and the .child-wife I 
once loved so well, and rob me of her sweet gratitude 
the sad substitute for the love I could not hope for. I'll 
give him one more chance. She may have repented. If 
she has only done so, I will yet relent ; but if she persists 
in her infatuation, there is but one course open to me, and 
I will not go back from my purpose. " 

He sat gazing into the fire, and as he sat and looked 
back into the past his heart grew hard ; as he thought of 
the future he shuddered, but not for himself. 

It was an hour after midnight, and Sister Brigitte en- 
tered, brisk and wakeful, ready for her vigil through the 
long silent hours of the early morning. 

“ I hope I’ve not overslept myself, doctor? ” she said, 
cheerfully. 

“You’re punctual as a clock, Sister Brigitte," replied 
Dr. Tholozan with an old-fashioned bow. 

“ You look upon him as out of danger now, I think ? ,f 
questioned the Sister, “is it not so ? " 

“ Yes, Sister, thanks to his good constitution, and 
your careful nursing, he must recover." 

“ Under Providence ! " added the Sister. 

“Under Providence ! "repeated Dr. Tholozan, mechan- 
ically. And then he lighted his candle-lamp, and walked 
straight to his wife’s boudoir. He opened her escritoire 
and took out her little red morocco diary. His hand shook 
as he opened it. 

There was no further entry in the book. The lines he 
had read before he saw once more. They were blotted 
with the traces of tears, still wet, tears that had been shed 
within the last few hours. 

Dr. Tholozan closed the book and replaced it. His 


170 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


hand no longer trembled. His lips were drawn tightly 
together, and his teeth were close set as he walked straight 
to his study. He opened a cabinet and took out a little 
stoppered bottle half full of white crystals ; he weighed 
out a certain quantity, by means of a little pair of scales 
with glass trays. Then he tilted it into a phial of dark 
purple glass ; he half filled the phial with clear liquid ; he 
shook the phial until the crystals were dissolved ; then he 
filled it up with a clear yellow syrup, which gave forth a 
pungent and aromatic odor. Again he shook the phial ; 
he tasted the contents, and then he corked it. With un- 
shaking hand he wrote upon an adhesive label the amount 
of the dose, with a direction that it was to be administered 
every four hours. Then he affixed the label in its place. 
He closed the cabinet, re-locked it, and walked straight 
to the sick man’s room. He handed the purple phial to 
the Sister, simply remarking, “Let him take it regularly, 
Sister Brigitte,” and he wished her good-night. 

Then Dr. Tholozan retired to bed ; but it was a long 
time before sleep overtook him. Still, even murderers 
sleep, and this worse than murderer found troubled rest 
at last. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


171 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Time had rolled on. George Leigh was now convales- 
cent : he was free from pain, and often sat in the big easy- 
chair by his bedroom fireside. For whole weeks Sister 
Brigitte had administered to him daily increasing doses of 
the mysterious medicament contained in the purple glass 
phial, and his bodily strength was gradually fast return- 
ing. But a terrible change had come over him ; a dis- 
coloration, which had first manifested itself at the tips of 
his fingers, had extended over the whole surface of his 
body. It had shown itself at first when it spread to the 
face in a sort of ashen-gray color. The tint had deepened 
and day by day it seemed to become more intense. At 
first Sister Brigitte had been considerably alarmed ; but 
she took heart of grace when Dr. Tholozan had told her 
that there was nothing to fear, nothing to be astonished 
at. The Sister naturally inferred from his observations 
that this gruesome effect was merely transient ; she sup- 
posed then that it would disappear as rapidly as it had 
supervened. But her anxiety returned as she noticed the 
daily increasing intensity of what had been at first only a 
dusky appearance, and its gradual development into a 
ghastly metallic blue color. 

The effect was terrible, and exaggerated by the victim’s 
fair hair, mustache, and beard which stood out in gro- 
tesque prominence, in frightful contrast to his darkened 
features. By the doctor’s direction the sick man had been 


172 


THE FATAL THRYNE. 


denhd the use of a mirror, and though George Leigh was 
aware that a dreadful change had come over him he was 
unconscious of the extent of his own disfigurement. He 
saw no one now but Sister Brigitte and Dr. Tholozan and 
his wife, for Madame Pichon had gradually ceased her 
visits to the sick room, as she noticed the horrible change 
that was coming over him day by day. 

“ Felix,” she said to her cousin, “ I can’t bear to look 
upon him. I can’t bear to think of him as he is now. 
Let me stay away, Felix, and treasure the remembrance 
of my lover as he was, and pray for his return to health. 
As he is he frightens me ; and I cannot bear to look upon 
his face. My own conscience tells me that I am acting 
rightly in this thing. No woman is wise to wilfully ex- 
pose herself to a disillusion ; the disillusion will come, 
they say, soon enough. Tell me, my dear friend, is it not 
better so ? ” 

And so Madame Pichon, though she made a daily pil- 
grimage to her cousin’s house, and was profuse in her 
presents of fruit and flowers, wisely avoided the presence 
of the sick man. 

It had been part of the system adopted by the doctor to 
seclude his victim to the uttermost. Beyond those we 
have named, since the contents of the purple phial had 
been first administered, not a soul had set eyes upon 
George Leigh. Since the commencement of his horrible 
vengeance the doctor had been, if possible, more kind and 
affectionate in his demeanor to George. This the young 
fellow had not unnaturally put down as the result of his 
engagement to Madame Pichon. When that lady first 
absented herself, George Leigh had been astonished, but 
by no means uneasy. Indeed, truth to tell, it was a great 
relief to him. To propose to a woman one does not care 
a button for must be difficult. It is possible to conceive 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


173 


that a man should screw himself up to the required pitch 
when urged by powerful motives ; but to keep up the 
comedy must be more difficult, and George had felt the 
strain almost beyond his strength. His feelings had con- 
siderably changed now, and the position had altered alto- 
gether. When George Leigh had first done violence to 
his own feelings he had supposed himself to be on his 
deathbed, or at least that his recovery was extremely 
unlikely, — he had honestly thought that he was making a 
heroic sacrifice ; but when he looked at the matter with a 
calmer mind it dawned upon him that he had merely, as 
it were, been guilty of a trick, a rather mean stratagem, 
in the interest of the woman he loved. Not that he fal- 
tered in his determination to carry out his self immolation 
to the bitter end. He had chosen it as the only means of 
escape for Helene, the only way of turning aside what he 
knew from her own lips were her husband’s just suspi- 
cions. Sophie Pichon as Sigismonda had amused him ; 
she had appeared to him intensely comic in the role of 
Niobe ; but as Venus Victrix she annoyed and disgusted 
him, and became to his mind absolutely repellent. But, 
notwithstanding this, the young man had determined to 
go through with the thing, and had no intention what- 
ever of breaking his plighted troth. 

As the results of Dr. Tholozan’s diabolical ingenuity be- 
came more and more apparent, George Leigh had noted 
them with wonder • the gradual discoloration of his hands 
had first annoyed, then irritated and alarmed him. Sister 
Brigitte was far too well-trained a nurse to betray any 
astonishment ; but she had been very much exercised 
indeed by a series of symptoms which she had never met 
before in all her large experience at the bedside. All she 
could extract from Dr. Tholozan was that the strange dis- 
coloration “ was a complication, which was very inter- 


174 


THE FATAL THKYNE. 


esting and curious.” It never dawned for an instant, 
either upon the doctors wife, the Sister, or her patient, 
that the terrible disfigurement could be anything but 
temporary, or that it had been produced by art. Sister 
Brigitte once had a very strong hint from the doctor upon 
the matter. “ It would be as well,” he had said, “ not to 
let his mind dwell upon it ; distract his attention as much 
as possible. Above all, don’t let him see a mirror.” 
Sister Brigitte had done as she was bid ; like a well-trained 
nurse, she carried out her instructions to the very letter, 
and though her curiosity was considerably aroused she 
asked no more indiscreet questions. To make assurance 
doubly sure she removed the dressing-glass from the 
room. It seemed to her but natural that, under such 
painful circumstances, Madame Pichon should absent 
herself. It was very apparent to Sister Brigitte that from - 
his rheumatic fever her patient was now absolutely con- 
valescent : she marvelled considerably that the doctor per- 
sistently set his face against the young man’s leaving his 
bedroom. Possibly, she thought, the doctor fears a re- 
lapse ; but he seemed to her to carry professional cau- 
tion beyond its usual limits. The real fact was, that, 
once having embarked upon it, Dr. Tholozan never re- 
lented, but resolved to carry out his fiendish purpose to 
the uttermost, and thoroughly avenge himself upon his 
wife and the unfortunate wretch who had dared to love 
her. It was with this object that, with a ferocious cruelty, 
he insisted that his wife should sit with the sick man 
every afternoon, and that he turned a deaf ear to her pro- 
testations and remonstrances upon this subject. But even 
to Helbne he never breathed a syllable of the diabolical 
wickedness of his purpose, the permanent disfigurement 
of the man he had once loved almost as a son. He 
looked on with pleasure and satisfaction nt his wife’s 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


*75 

palpable grief and horror as the terrible process went on ; 
indeed, it was as meat and drink to him ; and he waited 
with feverish anxiety for the moment, which was evi- 
dently fast approaching, when he should be able to an- 
nounce to both of them that his vengeance was complete, 
and at last throw off the mask. 

Day after day he looked at the little volume in his wife’s 
escritoire, but all in vain ; Helfcne never added another 
line to the record of her weakness. But he read the tor- 
tures that she suffered in her eyes, those sad, wistful eyes, 
that seemed to beg to him for mercy and implore his pity. 
Alas ! the evidence of his young wife’s grief only stimu- 
lated his fury, and rendered him the more implacable. 

As has been said, Madame Tholozan, by her husband’s 
direction, was in the habit of sitting with the patient and 
reading to him in the afternoons ; it was generally a 
newspaper that Madame Tholozan read aloud. Their 
eyes seldom met, and since the short and fateful inter- 
view at which, unknown to either of them, Dr. Tholozan 
had assisted, strange to say, no word of love had ever 
passed their lips. The hurried mutual confession that 
these two poor young people had made had been almost 
involuntary, but it had been a relief to both. Each knew 
the other’s secret, and that was enough for either. Alas ! 
the sweet dalliance allowed to happier lovers was denied 
to them ; neither of them ever referred for an instant to 
the indiscretion into which they had been betrayed. 
From a sort of sympathy in each other’s misery, neither 
of them, as it were by tacit consent, ever mentioned the 
name of Sophie Pichon, or made the slightest reference to 
her ; they both heard more than enough of Madame 
Pichon when Dr. Tholozan was present. He was never 
tired of delivering little messages from his cousin to the 
invalid. It gave him a sort of feverish pleasure to com- 


THE ’ 'FA TAL PHR YNE. 


176 

pel the unfortunate young man to respond to the widow's 
raptures in Hel&ne’s presence. 

Madame Tholozan was seated by the invalid’s bedside 
one afternoon, the paper on her lap. They were alone. 

“ I wonder when the doctor will let me go out?” said 
the young fellow wearily, “I seem to long for air. 1 
must get away to some quiet place where I can pick up 
my strength. This strange symptom which has come 
upon me,” and he looked at his hand, which showed up 
in startling contrast against the white coverings of the 
bed, “frightens me; it seems to increase rather than 
diminish. If it is as apparent in my face a* it is in these 
hands of mine, I shall become a sort of terror to all I 
meet ; for a time I may even have to go about veiled, a 
modern Mokanna. It’s not a pleasant idea, Madame, by 
any means. Your husband treats me like a child,” he 
added, dejectedly; “he might let me have a mirror. I 
am not surely so weak-minded as to be appalled at the 
sight of my own misery ! Is it very apparent, Madame ? ” 
“You’re terribly changed, Monsieur Leigh,” Helene 
answered, enigmatically; “but you’re better in health, 
that is a great deal. There was a time when we all de- 
spaired of your recovery ; all, save my husband : he was 
always sanguine as to the result.” 

“Sometimes I think, Madame, that it would have been 
better if Dr. Tholozan for once in his life had been wrong. ’’ 
“ You mustn’t be despondent, Monsieur Leigh. We all 
have our trials ; but we are bidden never to despair.” 

Her eyes were cast down upon the journal in her hand, 
and the pair lapsed for a while into a silence, which was 
at length broken by the invalid. 

“When I am well enough,” he said, “I think I shall 
cross the Channel once more, and take a look at my rela- 
tions. I have been working here in Paris so long that it 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


1 77 

is almost a duty ; but I suppose I shall drift back here 
again after all. In fact, I must/’ he added with a sigh, as 
he thought of Madame Pichon and her splendid house in 
the Rue Monceau, and as he remembered the life he had 
condemned himself to lead for the sake of the woman who 
sat at his bedside. “It will do my old father and me 
both good,” he said, “ to look upon each other’s faces once 
again. ” And he ran his dusky hand meditatively over the 
short blond beard that he had allowed to grow during his 
illness. 

Madame Tholozan shuddered at his words. 

“Shall I read again to you, Monsieur Leigh? ” she said, 
as she raised the newspaper to conceal her emotion. 

“You are too good, Madame,” he replied. And then 
she plunged into the feuilleton of that day’s Barbier. 

After a while the reading was interrupted by Dr. Tho- 
lozan ’s bonne who first knocked discreetly, and then en- 
tered bearing one of those big high-handled artificial-look- 
ing baskets of flowers, which the florists have lately suc- 
ceeded in making so fashionable in this country. 

Fanchette held it out artistically for the invalid’s inspec- 
tion. 

“Madame Pichon, monsieur,” she said, addressing 
Leigh, “desired me to tell you that she has arranged this 
basket of flowers herself ; she sends them to you with her 
best wishes and this little note.” 

She handed him a little letter redolent of tuberose. 

. “She also desired me to say, Madame,” Fanchettecon- 
tinued, “ that should Madame desire to see her, that she 
is at the present moment with Dr. Tholozan in his study.” 

“ Fanchette,” said Leigh, “give Madame Pichon my 
grateful thanks ; ” and he stared mechanically at the flow- 
ers, taking out a magnificent spray of scarlet geranium 
and laying it upon the bed. But he did not offer to open 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


I 7 8 

the little note, and Madame Tholozan sent no response to 
the widows suggestion. 

Fanchette curtsied and left the room. 

George Leigh still turned the great spray of geranium 
round critically between his fingers and thumb. 

“ You will pardon me, Monsieur Leigh,” said Madame 
Tholozan, “but hadn’t you better open the letter? It 
may call for a reply.” 

He broke the seal carelessly, and this was what he 
read : 

“Dearest George, — If you only knew what it cost me, 
George, to stay away from you, you would pity me. I 
do it under protest, and it is very hard to bear ; but it is 
my cousin’s wish, and of course his wishes are to me as 
laws. I cut the flowers in the little basket myself in the 
conservatory this morning, the arranging them has been 
quite a labor of love. But I fear you won’t be satisfied, 
for you artists are all so terribly critical, and so very dif- 
ficult to please. Monsieur Laguerre, who introduced him- 
self to me as a friend of yours, inquires most affectionately 
after you whenever we meet. He is such a nice fellow. 
How I envy Helfcne ! Don’t flirt with her, George ; but 
you’ll find it very difficult to avoid that, I suppose ? All 
these dreamy blondes are so terribly sentimental. 

“ Ever your own. 

‘ ‘ Lovingly and trustingly. 

“SOPHIE.” 

The artist laughed, and tossed the letter upon the cover- 
let impatiently. 

“ She is ingenious. She tells me that she cut the 
flowers herself this morning ; this one, at all events, is 
gummed and wired.” And he handed it to Madame Tho- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


179 

lozan with a smile. “ But we live in an artificial age, 
perhaps they grow so nowadays in our Parisian conserva- 
tories. Who can tell ? ” 

Meanwhile Madame Sophie Pichon was closeted with 
her cousin. The doctor was seated back in his easy- 
chair, gazing upon her with a smile of amusement. 

“Felix/’ she said, in an anxious tone, “this suspense 
is killing me. Is he so very much changed, changed for 
the worse, I mean ? I ought to act deliberately in this 
matter. Do you think, Felix, that the disfigurement will 
be permanent ? Be honest with me, dear friend ; let me 
implore you to be honest. I could bear a great deal. 
I have forgiven him a great deal. Yes, I forgave his 
wicked philanderings with Helene.” The doctor gave 
a gesture of impatience. “You needn’t shrug your shoul- 
ders like that, and look as if you could eat me ; there 
were philanderings, and they were wicked, very wicked. 
They may have escaped you ; but I could read it in 
their eyes. But, Felix,” she added solemnly, “though 
there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for George, I couldn’t 
marry a bronze statue.” 

“ You shall know all in good time, Sophie,” he replied. 

“That’s all very well,” she said; “but in the mean- 
while I am becoming compromised; our engagement has 
been more than hinted at in print. Besides,” said she, 
with a blush, “were my marriage with George to become 
impossible, I might wish to make other arrangements.” 

“Of a matrimonial nature, Sophie?” 

“Don’t be indiscreet, Felix. Since poor Adolphe’s 
death I have been without a natural protector. It was all 
very well, you know, before your marriage ; but since 
that time it has seemed to me that your own — ahem — 
troubles,” she added, with a spiteful sniff, “have given 
you enough to do without being worried by mine. Felix,” 


THE FATAL PHRYHE. 


180 

she continued, with importance, “I have received a 
great deal of attention since I left off my mourning. ” 

“ From George ? ” inquired the doctor, with a smile. 

“From George and others/’ said Madame Pichon, as 
she cast down her eyes. 

“ And the aspirants, Sophie? ” 

“Their name is Legion, Dr. Tholozan,” said the widow, 
with a little laugh. 

“Come to the point, my dear,” said the doctor, with a 
smile of amusement, as he leant back in his chair. 

“You’re terribly matter-of-fact, Felix,” replied Madame 
Pichon. “You never spare my blushes.” 

“They become you, my dear; they become you, and 
I’m used to them,” said the doctor. 

“Cousin Felix,” said Monsieur Pichon’s widow, “Cap- 
tain Laguerre, a Gascon gentleman of ancient lineage, 
made me a formal offer of his hand this morning. Cap- 
tain Laguerre is a most distinguished officer ; he wears 
the Cross of Valor, and has served in two African 
campaigns ; he has now retired from the army covered 
with glory. He is at present engaged in literature, in 
which his reputation is deservedly high.” 

“As a professional duellist,” remarked the doctor, 
coolly ; “in which character he draws a monthly salary 
from the Barbier. ” 

“No, Felix, no; Captain Laguerre is not what you 
would paint him ; he is a noble man capable of many 
sacrifices. He even spared poor George’s life for my sake. 
And, Felix, I — I love him.” 

“The gentleman you speak of, Sophie,” replied the 
doctor, imperturbably, “is a dangerous man; he is a 
soldier of fortune, a professional swash-buckler. You’d 
better be careful, Sophie ; don’t go too far with him. It 


THE FATAL PHRYHE. i$ l 

would be a ridiculous alliance to which I could never 
give my consent. ” 

“Only tell me that George is not permanently dis- 
figured, and I am satisfied. If you cannot tell me this, 
Cousin Felix, I shall marry Captain Laguelrre.” 

“Then you must be mad indeed, Sophie Pichon. Once 
get into the clutches of a ruffian of his class, and you will 
be completely ruined. Were you fool enough to marry 
this forti*ie-hunter he would first squander yowr fortune 
and then render your life miserable. 

“You and my notary would take care of my fortune, 
my kind cousin. Heaven knows,” she went on, “ that it 
is with regret and agony that I abandon my engagement 
with poor George. You don’t deny that there is no hope 
of his permanent recovery from his disfigurement” 

The doctor shook his head. 

“ Then, Dr. Tholozan, I formaty demand your consent 
to my marriage with that honorable gentleman, Captain 
Louis Laguerre.” 

“ Pish,” replied the doctor. 

“Is that all the answer you have te> give me, Cousin 
Felix ? ” 

The doctor repeated the interjection. 

“Then, Felix,” said the widow, in her most tragic 
tones, “we part as enemies. My notary, Dr. Tholcean, 
will serve you with the necessary sommations ; this, Louis 
informs me, ‘is the usual course under such circum- 
stances, when the lady’s guardian proves recalcitrant,' as 
he tersely puts it. My friend, v she continued, “ I bid 
you farewell. I forgive you, and I leave you in the hope 
that the time will come when you will think better of poor 
Sophie and her affianced husband. Will you be good 
enough to ring for my carriage ? ” 

The doctor did as he was bid without further remon- 


182 


THE FATAL PHR YNE, 


strance, and the ruffled widow swept indignantly from the 
room. 

“ And now the cat’s out of the bag,” thought Dr. Tho- 
lozan. “In a few days, thanks to my shallow cousin’s 
tongue, the matter will be common talk ; for she is cer- 
tain to impart it to her military adorer, and he will sell 
the whole scandal to the Barbier at so much a line. I 
know already, though she has never breathed a word of 
it, that Helene sees my hand in this thing. Will she ever 
forgive me ? Will she ever confess to me in words that 
she has wronged me? Never ; she is too proud for that. 
The hour of her chastisement approaches, and of his. 
The helpless old man has accomplished his vengeance 
upon his youthful rival and his faithless wife. Nothing 
now remains but to announce to them their punishment, 
their lifelong punishment, and my crime.” He paled as 
these vindictive thoughts passed through his mind, and 
pressed both his hands convulsively to his chest. 

“I’m not the man I was,” said the doctor aloud. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


183 


CHAPTER XV. 

“Sister Brigitte, I felicitate you,” said the doctor 
cheerfully, as he entered the invalid’s room early in the 
afternoon on the day after the conversation with Madame 
Pichon narrated in the last chapter. “Our troubles are 
drawing to a close ; and to your tender care our patient’s 
convalescence is in a great measure due. And I congratu- 
late you too, Leigh ; it’s a time for congratulation when a 
sick man leaves his bed for the first time. The getting up 
has fatigued you, I fear. Are you equal to givingme half 
an hour, Leigh?” he added, almost tenderly. “Don’t 
over exert yourself; but I should like half an hour’s talk 
with you if you feel up to it.” 

“I think so, doctor. I am a little weak, a trifle dazed 
and giddy ; but it is passing off. ” 

“Leave us then, Sister Brigitte,” said the doctor, “ and 
kindly tell Madame Tholozan that I await her here. It 
might be as well perhaps, Sister, if you seized the oppor- 
tunity to take the air ; for we have a little business to 
transact, and it may occupy some time.” 

The Sister nodded her acquiescence, gave her patient a 
parting smile, and the doctor opened the door for her and 
bowed her out as if she had been a duchess. He closed 
the door again carefully, and then sat himself down oppo- 
site the artist, who reclined in the big winged arm-chair at 
the fireside. 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


184 

“I have a good deal to say to you, Leigh,” he began, 
quietly. “ I have something to read to you, and something 
to announce. I’ll begin with the announcement. Yester- 
day, my cousin, Madame Pichon, informed me that it was 
not her intention to loyally carry out her engagement with 
you.” 

The artist gave no sign of astonishment or anger ; he 
simply nodded. 

“I am probably right in thinking, Leigh, continued the 
doctor, “that this piece of news, which would have been 
a severe blow to most men, is no disappointment to you. 
You know very well that previous to your illness, pre- 
vious to my marriage even, I had been glad indeed to per- 
ceive my cousin’s marked partiality for you. I did every- 
thing in my power to forward her wishes ; I even went so 
far as to urge with you the expediency of a marriage 
which would give you possession of immense wealth, 
and probably be the best means of protecting Sophie 
against herself. But you were romantic ; the accumula- 
tions of the late Monsieur Pichon had no attractions for 
you. Perfectly heartwhole, and perfectly indifferent, you 
did not respond to my infatuated cousin’s manifest ad- 
vances. Can I go on, my young friend, or do I weary 
you ? ” 

“ Pray go on, doctor,” said the artist. 

“This, then, was the position of things prior to my 
marriage — my hasty, rash, ill-considered marriage. I go 
away upon my little wedding tour with my newly mar- 
ried wife. Circumstances, over which you have no con- 
trol, again throw you and Madame Pichon much to- 
gether ; although Sophie offers you every possible encour- 
agement, you yet take no advantage of your position, 
remaining as unimpressionable as ever. That, I think, 
was the exact position of affairs ? ” 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


% 


The artist nodded once more. 

At that moment a gentle tap was heard at the door. 

“Enter, my child, enter,” said Dr. Tholozan, cheerfully. 

Madame Tholozan, looking pale and haggard, came 
into the room. She quailed before her husband’s cold 
glance, and her eyes remained fixed upon the ground in 
a determined effort to avoid his look. 

“Seat yourself, my child, seat yourself; ” he said, as 
he placed a chair for her in front of the fire. “ Helene,” 
said the doctor, “ I have been telling Monsieur Leigh that 
Sophie is fickle enough to desire to break her engagement 
with him. Although at a single blow my young friend is 
deprived of the hand of a pretty woman and the enjoy- 
ment of a large fortune, the news in no way unmans him ; 
he is able to bear it with a marvellous equanimity. Per- 
haps, my child, I shall not be wrong in saying that neither 
of us is surprised at this ; for both of us are perfectly well 
aware that Monsieur Leigh cherishes a secret affection for 
a married lady, an affection which is reciprocated.” 

Helene blushed deeply, and buried her face in her 
hands. 

“I think, Dr. Tholozan,” said the artist, coldly, “that 
having announced to me Madame Pichon's determination, 
speculations upon my conduct, in Madame Tholozan’s 
presence, at all events, are out of place.” 

“I make no speculations, Monsieur Leigh. I simply 
state facts ; facts that are within my own knowledge, 
facts which unfortunately need an explanation between 
us in the presence of my wife. ” 

Then George Leigh clenched his hands and set his teeth 
tightly, but he protested no more. 

“I have something to read to you both,” continued the 
doctor, “something to read to you which at one time 
caused me intense pain. When I have read it, Monsieur 


86 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


Leigh, and when you have heard what I have to tell you, 
you will not accuse me of speculating ; you will allow 
that I have been speaking of certainties.” He said it 
coldly and without passion. Helene started as he took a 
little dainty red morocco volume from his pocket ; it was 
her own diary. He read aloud page after page of im- 
passioned rhapsody ; the confessions, the heart confi- 
dences of a romantic woman's soul, told with all the fervor 
of a George Sand. Then he closed the book. “ I have 
been reading to you from Helene’s diary,” he said ; “the 
object of her passionate and mysterious love was yourself. 

I had long suspected it, Monsieur Leigh. I taxed Helfcne 
with it long ago. I did not blame her. I only bade her 
wait, for I believed in you, my friend. I loved you as a 
son ; and I trusted in your honor. I said to myself, this 
paragon who declines to barter himself away for a hand- 
some woman's wealth will respect the sanctity of his old 
friend’s fireside. I said it was but natural. I perceived 
your mutual inclination. I read it in your eyes. And I 
said to my young wife, ‘Wait patiently, my child,’ for I 
knew that she would not have to wait long. The end for 
me was approaching fast, and it is coming on me now 
with rapid strides. I would have placed her hand in 
yours, Monsieur Leigh, without a pang. I even took the 
precaution to express my wishes for your mutual happi- 
ness in my will, lest circumstances might prevent my 
doing so in words. I swear to you both, that my earnest 
hope was, that the time might come when you could be 
honestly happy in each other’s love. I swear it upon my 
honor, as a man, and speaking as one who has not long * 
to live. And now I have something to tell you.” 

George Leigh clutched the arms of the chair, and big 
drops of sweat stood upon his brow, as he gazed at the 
doctor in horror and astonishment. The young wife 


• THE FATAL PHRYNE. 187 

uttered no word ; her face still remained hidden in her 
hands, but her form shook with convulsive sobs. 

“Doubtless you have not forgotten, Monsieur Leigh, 
how you once honored me in depicting Helene — my wife 
— as Phryne ? As Phryne, Monsieur Leigh, a not too 
graceful compliment. But your good taste caused you to 
obliterate from your canvas her too successful portrait. 
Do not protest,” he said, and he raised his hand, perceiv- 
ing that the artist was about to interrupt him. “Do not 
demand my forgiveness, but hear me to the end. I heard 
the mutual confession of your love with my own ears. I 
heard from your own lips that my wife was your mistress. 
And then I owed you a deep debt, Monsieur Leigh ; it is 
now paid, paid in full. You have stolen from me the af- 
fection of my young wife ; that is your crime. Now hear 
your punishment. You are young ; you are, or rather 
were, handsome ; you have become celebrated, wealth 
must follow as a natural consequence. Listen to your 
sentence. You shall become a pariah. I condemn you 
to seclusion from the whole human race. You who had 
so much to look forward to in this life shall earnestly pray 
for death. Whenever you look upon your own face you 
shall remember how you wronged the man who once 
loved you as a father, and how that man repaid the 
wrong to the best of his humble power. As you are now, 
Monsieur Leigh, so you shall remain to your dying day.” 

Dr. Tholozan snatched up a hand-mirror which he had 
previously secretly placed upon the dressing-table and 
thrust it into the young man’s hand. 

The artist gazed upon the terrible sight reflected in it 
with indignation and horror. 

“ I have raised an impenetrable barrier,” continued the 
doctor, “between you two. I have seen the shadow 
deepen day by day. Poor monster,” he added, with a 


1 88 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


laugh, “if she can love you now, her love must be surely 
passing the love of women. ” 

Madame Tholozan rose suddenly to her feet, she gave 
one cold and determined glance at her infuriated husband, 
then dropped on her knees at the artists side, seized his 
disfigured hands and covered them with kisses. 

“George, my love, my life, say you forgive me. In 
my eyes, dear George,” she continued softly, as she gazed 
up at him through her tears, “you are ever the same; the 
victim who has become a martyr for my sake. The mon- 
ster is the man who stands there gloating over the accom- 
plishment of our ruin, the man whom I once swore to 
honor and to love, the inhuman wretch whom I now 
loathe and despise. I cannot hate him, he has sunk too 
low for that. You, my darling, have been my victim 
and his. Had it not been for my girlish indiscretion, the 
terrible fate would never have come upon you. My hus- 
band has had his revenge, his cowardly revenge. It is I 
alone who have been to blame. The miserable avowal 
of my love — and how the words escaped me, I cannot tell 
— forced the confession from your lips, which that spy 
basely overheard, and wickedly colored with the foul 
imaginings of his own vile soul. Say you forgive me, 
George, only say you forgive me, my precious one. For 
I love you, as he rightly said, with more than a w.oman’s 
love.” Again she covered his hands with kisses and 
gazed up pleadingly into his eyes. 

He placed his arm protectingly upon her shoulder, and 
she nestled to him as a frightened child nestles to its 
mother. 

“I am speaking the truth,” she continued, still crouch- 
ing in the embrace of the man she loved, “no hint or 
word of love ever passed between us before or since that 
fatal moment. You, Dr. Tholozan, brought me home 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


189 

here to this house to go on eating the bread of your 
charity ; and I was grateful for it, it even ceased to be 
bitter to me. Never did I fail in my duty to you ; and I 
did love you, — as a dog loves the hand that feeds him. 
Never for a single instant did I swerve from the path of 
gratitude and duty till you with fiendish subtlety yourself 
suggested that ‘ it was but natural ’ that I should love the 
man that you have ruined and betrayed. They are your 
own words, and you cannot deny them. You who should 
have shielded me from harm and danger ; you, my natural 
protector ; you, the man I loved with the pure love of a 
child for her father ; you, knowing my very inmost 
thoughts, the very wrestlings of my soul, — for you did 
know them, through the wretched record of my weakness 
which you hold in your hand ; you yourself urged me to- 
wards the downward path which I refused to tread. 
What right had you to wreck your victim’s life ? I call on 
Heaven to judge between us, though Heaven itself can 
never right the cruel wrong you did. ” 

She ceased to speak, for the sight that met her eyes 
palsied her tongue. As her last impassioned words rang 
in Dr. Tholozan’s ears she saw him rise from his chair, 
and again fall back into it, as one who had been sudden- 
ly smitten down by a crushing blow from an invisible 
hand. She saw the wretched old man’s thin fingers clutch 
convulsively at his own throat, then his hands beat the air 
wildly ; her own name and the one word “ Forgive ” 
came with an effort from his distorted lips ; and then he 
sat perfectly still in the chair, his sightless eyes still star- 
ing at his victim and at the woman who nestled at his 
victim’s side. 

For Dr. Tholozan was dead. 

The fate he had predicted for himself had come upon 
him ; his wife had invoked the judgment of Heaven, and 


9 o 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


the finger of God had touched him. He had had his ven- 
geance, and he had gone to his account. 

At that moment Sister Brigitte entered the room ; she 
stared in helpless astonishment at the terrible scene that 
met her eyes. 

“Look to him, Sister,” cried Leigh, as he staggered to 
his feet ; “ he is in a fit,” and the young man tugged furi- 
ously at the bell-rope. 

Sister Brigitte rushed to Dr. Tholozan’s assistance ; she 
loosened his carefully tied white cravat, and tore open his 
shirt collar ; then she placed her hand upon his heart, but 
the heart had ceased to beat, the wily brain had ceased 
to scheme and plot. Madame Tholozan’s husband was 
standing before the judgment seat of God. 

“ It is too late, Monsieur, ” said Sister Brigitte, solemnly ; 
“he is dead, ” and then she crossed herself. 

The doctor’s widow gave no sign, she did not even 
scream ; but from her kneeling position, she fell fainting 
on the floor. 

****** 

There was a terrible commotion in the great house with 
the big porte-cochere. George Leigh left the place that 
had been so long a home to him with Sister Brigitte that 
very day. He never entered it again. Madame Pichon’s 
grief was violent in the extreme ; it did her a wonderful 
amount of credit in the eyes of her numerous acquaint- 
ances, and of the servants. There was no scandal. The 
Maire of the arrondissement came and viewed the body in 
a perfunctory manner. One of Dr. Tholozan’s confreres 
gave a formal certificate that the deceased man had long 
suffered from disease of the heart, and that that was the 
cause of death. 

Madame Pichon’s grief for her cousin was in one sense 
sincere, for it necessitated the postponement of her mar- 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


191 

riage with Captain Louis Laguerre for a period of six 
months. 

The doctor was buried at Pere-la-Chaise, and quite a 
large procession followed his body to the tomb. There 
was no religious ceremony, for the will of the deceased 
specially forbade it ; but the scientific world was in great 
force at the grave. There were no less than three ora- 
tions. The lecturer on Forensic, medicine to the great 
medical school of which Dr. Tholozan had been a distin- 
guished member spoke first, and fulsomely praised the 
deceased for fully ten minutes. Then the old colleague of 
the doctor’s, a distinguished atheist, delivered a violent 
tirade against religion. And lastly an eminent vivisector 
mourned the loss of one who had been, as he described 
him, a distinguished fellow-laborer in one of the least pop- 
ular paths of science. And then the earth was rattled 
down on the coffin, and the distinguished crowd hurried 
home to dinner ; and Dr. Tholozan was left to sleep in 
peace at Pere-la-Chaise under the shadow cast by the great 
marble monument which had been erected by his discon- 
solate widow to that benefactor of the human race, Adolphe 
Pichon. 

Madame Pichon was considerably disappointed at the 
simple headstone which recorded her Cousin Felix’s name 
and age, and nothing more ; but the doctor was a man of 
method, and the directions for his burial were specified in 
his will. The will bore date six months before his death. 
By it he left his great house and everything he possessed 
in the world to his dear wife Helene. “And it is my de- 
sire,” the instrument went on, “that, after a decent inter- 
val, my said wife Helene Tholozan, nee Montuy, shall 
contract the matrimonial alliance which I have recom- 
mended to her, and this recommendation,” the will con- 
tinued, “ will explain to my dear and trusted friend, George 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


192 

Leigh, why I have left him no tangible token of my affec- 
tion and esteem.” 

There were three people at least who could read the 
riddle the will contained. 

Nor was Dr. Tholozan’s grave uncared for and un- 
visited. A lovely woman clad in deepest black was a 
familiar figure to th egardiens at the cemetery. For Helene 
had forgiven her dead husband ; she had caught the last 
word he uttered with his dying breath ; she had inter- 
preted his cry for forgiveness as a reversal on his part of 
the unjust sentence he had pronounced upon her. She 
read the one little word, in the fulness of her own forgiv- 
ing, loving, trusting heart, as the confession of the death 
repentance of the man who had meant her well, but who, 
under a mistaken impression of her infidelity, had at a 
single blow wrecked the life of an innocent man. And so 
she made her weekly pilgrimage to the lonely grave of her 
dead husband, and sat there and wept genuine tears of 
sorrow ; and still remembered him only as her kind 
guardian and her benefactor. 

But we must not lose sight of Monsieur Pichon’s widow. 
Deprived of the protection of her astute counsellor and 
trustee her cousin, she rushed upon her fate. She married 
Captain Louis Laguerre, that distinguished Gascon officer, 
and then a sort of blight came upon her. His notorious 
infidelities rendered her furiously jealous, and she was 
only too ready to retort upon her faithless husband in kind. 
But the Captains terrible reputation with the pistol and 
the small sword kept her many admirers at a most respect- 
ful distance. As Dr. Tholozan had predicted, her vast 
fortune was rapidly dissipated by her husband, who was 
a notorious gambier. Madame Laguerre, still a faded but 
handsome woman, is a well-known figure at the Casino 
at Monte Carlo. 


THE FA TAL PHR YNE. 


m 

Sister Brigitte still lives on, the trusted companion of 
the physician’s widow. She does not say much, but she 
ponders a good deal over the awful drama in which she 
involuntarily assisted in the doctor’s house. As her 
thoughts go back to that terrible time, she is sometimes 
inclined to think that she has penetrated the mystery of 
the purple phial. But though Sister Brigitte has quitted 
the religious garb, those who have the privilege of her 
acquaintance always address her as Sister ; and she is still 
discretion itself, and yet finds consolation in doing little 
acts of kindness by stealth, and the frequent perusal of her 
favorite work, il The Lives of the Saints.” 


194 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


CHAPTER XVI. 

It was opening day at the Royal Academy of Arts. 
Two young men had just left the dense crowd that pushed 
and hustled in front of one of the pictures of the year. 
They must have been Art students, for both smelt of to- 
bacco, both wore velvet coats, both talked loudly and 
authoritatively, and both of them looked as if their hair 
wanted cutting very badly indeed. 

“I tell you the knee’s out of drawing,” said one of 
them, 

“Not a bit of it, my dear boy,” replied the other ; “the 
old leper, though eccentric, is always^ correct. He 
wouldn’t be hung where he is, and sell as he does, if he 
wasn't. ” 

“ Lucky devil,” remarked his companion. “ I wonder 
if he really is a leper ? ” he continued. 

“Oh yes, not a doubt of it, you know ; horrible case, 
born so, I fancy. Been dying of it for years, only one 
eye left, they say ; never sees a soul, and has his food 
passed to him through a trap-door. Beastly thing for him, 
of course. Mysterious affair, you know, large family all 
lepers.” 

“Then I don’t know that he is so very lucky after all. 
By Jove, I shouldn’t care to change places with him.” 

And the young gentlemen turned to another picture. 

Nobody knew very much about Mr. Leigh the successful 
artist. There was his address in the Academy Catalogue, 


THE FA TAL PHR YNE 


I95 

Le Vieux Chateau, near Etaples, France. That was all. 

As a rule, things do not lose by the telling : roll your 
snowball long enough, as long as there is plenty of snow, 
and there is no limit to its increase. The fact that no one 
ever looked on George Leigh’s face, that he led a secluded 
life, and that his many friends had lost sight of him, had 
caused the leper story to be originated, and now every- 
body believed it ; and George Leigh who had scored his 
first success at the Paris Salon in “Phryne before the 
Tribunal ” was almost universally spoken of in Art circles 
as Leigh the Leper. 

Several years had gone by since the incidents described 
in the last chapter. We remember how Dr. Tholozan had 
solemnly pronounced his unjust sentence of banishment 
from the society of the rest of the human race upon George 
Leigh. He had condemned him to be a pariah and an 
outcast ; he had as it were set a mark, worse than the 
mark of Cain, upon him. The unfortunate man, like Cain, 
had fled from the scene of his punishment ; he had become 
a fugitive, but not a wanderer. Much had happened in 
those years. In his mind’s eye the artist ran over all the 
out-of-the-way places he could think of to seek a suitable 
spot in which he might bury himself alive. But before 
he came to this terrible determination, he visited several 
of the principal physicians of Paris ; he told his story, his 
pitiful story, as far as it was necessary to tell it. The 
wise men, one and all, gave their heads a melancholy 
shake, and unanimously told the unhappy man that science 
could do nothing for him ; the dead man’s vengeance had 
been complete. 

And then it was that George Leigh bethought himself 
of Etaples and the old Chateau. He remembered that he 
had once peeped through a great iron grille, which formed 
the entrance to the place, with curiosity ; he recollected 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


196 

how a notice board on the gray stone wall of the gateway 
had announced that the place was to let, how he had 
pealed away at the great bell which clanked from its iron 
cage ; he remembered how a little girl had admitted him, 
and how her father, who was in charge of the place, 
showed him over it It was certainly the most solitary 
spot, and at the same time the most lovely, that he had 
ever seen. He had passed a whole day there, he had 
made half a dozen sketches, and he had reluctantly torn 
himself away when light failed him. “ If the old Chateau 
near Etaples is still to let,” thought he, “that is the very 
place for me to live and die in.” It was to let, and its 
owner was only too glad to find a tenant in the English 
artist. George Leigh had never failed to sell his works, 
and by means of “ Phryne before the Tribunal ” he had 
leapt at once into celebrity ; and as long as his eye and 
hand did not fail him, he was certain of a large income. 

When Leigh had first seen the place it was in a very bad 
state of repair. It had been the favorite toy of a wealthy 
man who had died before he could put the finishing 
touch to the earthly Paradise he meant to end his days 
in. There were big conservatories tumbling into ruin, 
a huge vinery which hadn’t been heated for years, a vast 
courtyard containing stabling and coach-houses, a great- 
walled fruit-garden ; at one end there were melon pits, a 
ruined fernery, and even a labyrinth ; and the whole was 
surrounded by a stone wall eight feet high. The place 
contained about eleven acres, and it was looked after by a 
single man. At least three-fourths of the ground was 
filled by a magnificent forest of trees ; and a dense jungle 
of ferns, ivy, and briars grew in wild profusion at their feet. 
What had once been clean-shaven lawns, were now cov- 
ered with coarse thick grass ; broad walks green with moss 
wound about amongst the trees in every direction. The 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


197 

entire estate formed a natural basin, through the bottom 
of which ran a babbling stream ; by an artful arrangement 
of flood-gates a miniature lake had been formed in the 
centre ; it had once been well-stocked with fish, but when 
Leigh took the place it was full of weeds and water-lilies 
very picturesque, but terribly unwholesome, and alive 
with eels. A boat lay rotting in a little thatched boating 
house, and told of neglect and decay. So numerous were 
the paths that ran through the bosky recesses of the 
enchanted dell that a strong man might tire himself out 
there in a single day, and j T et never traverse the same 
road a second time. Rabbits started up from under your 
feet in every direction, and the place had become a sort 
of haven of refuge for the game in the neighborhood. 
The poacher had been pretty well stamped out in this part 
of France, and the whole district was strictly preserved. 
The dove and the wood-pigeon cooed in the great trees, 
and there were squirrels innumerable who leaped from 
bough to bough. Such were the grounds. 

As for the Chateau itself, the rooms had looked cold and 
comfortless enough with their yawning fireplaces and 
empty hearths. The once gay papers hung dropping with 
age upon the walls of the room. The house was dry enough, 
for it was built high upon one side of the ravine ; and stand- 
ing upon a sort of pedestal formed by the cellarage, which 
was built above ground, A Frenchman when he builds a 
house always provides enormous store room for his wine 
and wood. There was a big boudoir with a bow-window, 
which looked out upon a wilderness which had been once 
an ornamental garden ; the shrubs had grown into great 
trees there, and flourished in wild luxuriance, unpruned 
and untended. The mild winters had failed to kill the 
fuschias and geraniums ; other flowers there were none 
save a few single marigolds, which the Robinson Crusoe 


THE FALAL PHRYNE. 


198 

left in charge of the place allowed to run wild there for 
the flavoring of his soup. The fellow even tethered his 
cow on what once had been the private lawn of the cha- 
telaine of the place. There were other flowers, but they 
grew upon great trees, — they were not rose bushes, the 
old overgrown standards were literally trees, and they 
were tenderly cared for by the hard-working old fellow 
in charge. The roses were his perquisites ; he made 
rather a good thing out of them, and it was the only thing 
he was not compelled to give an account of. The hay, 
the fruit and vegetables, the dropped wood, even the eels 
in the lake, were regularly sent to market for the benefit of 
proprietor. But the hard-working gardener and his little 
daughter got the benefit of the roses, and the trees, 
though very old, were cared for with a loving hand. 

There was beauty, desolation and solitude in the old 
Chateau when George Leigh first took it. He was a pru- 
dent man, and he got a long lease, and then he set about 
getting rid of the desolation as soon as possible. He was 
an artist, but he was also an Englishman, so he laid no 
impious hand upon the dreamy recesses of the bosky dells, 
but he went to work at once upon the innumerable paths. 
When he was not painting in the vast studio that he con- 
structed at the back of the house, he was superintending 
the metalling of these paths, or rather little roads, for the 
principal ones were big enough to drive a pony carriage 
on. This work occupied him for an entire year. In the 
meantime he went on painting with his customary 
rapidity, and like a wise man he put himself entirely 
in the hands of Monsieur Israels. He got through an 
enormous amount of work, and when we confess that 
Monsieur Israels was satisfied, we may be quite sure that 
George Leigh was on the high road to wealth ; for Israels 


THE FATAL PHRYNE. 


199 

was an honest fellow in his way, and he dealt fairly 
enough with those who trusted him. 

But George Leigh never set foot outside the high stone 
wall that surrounded his eleven acres. 

The first year of Leigh's occupation of the Chateau had 
passed away. As soon as spring had commenced in 
earnest Leigh caused the flood-gates of the little lake 
to be opened, and he emptied the lake and made a 
clean sweep of the eels. And then an army of work- 
people came over from Banquerouteville, and in a 
year the old Chateau was entirely renovated and re- 
decorated. The workpeople never saw their employer, 
for Monsieur Leigh never left his studio, where he toiled 
like a horse, till they were all safely off the promises at 
sunset. And then he went round with the man who had 
once been the gardener, but who was now raised to the 
position of general factotum, and the way in which George 
found fault with everything was something terrible. We 
remember how it had been a labor of love with him 
when he had assisted in the adornment of Madame 
Tholozan's boudoir. As a rule, artists are men of expen- 
sive tastes, but Leigh went beyond that now ; he was 
lavish," he was even wickedly extravagant. No doubt 
Monsieur Israels must have made something very hand- 
some out of all the beautiful things that he sent down 
from Paris ; but his instructions were always the same 
— “ Spare no expense . ” Monsieur Israels carried out his 
orders to the very letter. 

The fact is, that George Leigh, though a pariah under 
sentence of perpetual banishment, was about to marry the 
woman he loved, the only woman he had ever cared for, 
the woman for whom, in one sense, his life had been 
wrecked. 

That woman had consented to be the companion of his 


200 


THE FATAL PHRYNE . 


solitude. She in her peerless beauty — for the haggard 
look had now left Helene’s face — had promised to be his 
wife ; she was about to marry the man who for her sake 
shunned every human eye but hers ; she had consented to 
share his solitude, for in her eyes George was still the 
same. Their love had passed through the fiery furnace of 
tribulation, and it still remained what it had ever been — 
pure and unsullied, unalloyed by a single sensual thought 

The workman had completed their task. George Leigh 
was standing at the big bow-window of the boudoir of 
the old Chateau looking out upon the sunny garden with 
its closely shaven lawn, and he smiled upon the big 
parterres where choice flowers in a profusion of varied 
colors blazed in rich luxuriance ; the air was heavy with 
their fragrance. Then he took a photograph from his 
breast and kissed it. It was the same photograph that 
Dr. Tholozan had given him three years ago. 

“Now my new life commences,” he said. “I have 
had my punishment. God knows we both have suffered. 
And to-morrow she will be here, she will be mine at last, 
and nothing will ever come between us, not even the 
remembrance of my old friend’s vengeance.” And then he 
stepped out into the sunlit garden. 

“How slowly the hours pass,” he thought, 

***** 

The Leighs are terribly unsocial people ; they have 
given a great deal of offence in the neighborhood by 
declining all civilities. The leper story is thoroughly 
current at Etaples ; but the cure of the parish smiles at it, 
and speaks well of the English heretic and his wife. He 
never asks their charity in vain for his little flock, and once 
a week a cover is laid for him at the old Chateau. His 
little church has become quite a show place since the 
foreign artist presented him with the altar-piece of the 


THE FATAL PHRYHE. 


201 


Virgin and child, before which the peasantry kneel and 
pray, and which stray tourists from Banquerouteville gaze 
at with curiosity and admiration. The painting of that 
altar-piece was a labor of love to the artist. It was his 
first religious picture, and the figures are portraits. George 
Leigh is not the only painter who has been privileged to 
reproduce the features of the woman he loves as the type 
of the good, the pure, and the beautiful. When Monsieur 
Israels came down on business he tried hard for a replica 
of the altar-piece, but George declined his tempting offers. 
It is easy enough to recognize his second model in the 
sturdy little fellow who, clasping his mother’s hand, 
toddles at her side. Strange to say, they call the boy 
Felix, for both of them have long ago forgiven the man 
who was once George. Leigh’s old friend. The future lies 
smiling before them ; the dark clouds which once over- 
shadowed their lives have passed away. Their sufferings 
have been great, and who shall grudge them the long 
dream of love that lies before them in the sunny leafy 
paradise of the old Chateau ? 














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